


The Swan of Misthaven

by slow-smiles (the_irish_mayhem)



Series: My Princess, My Pirate [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No First Dark Curse (Once Upon a Time), Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain Duckling, Established Relationship, F/M, Minor Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Robin Hood, Minor Prince Charming | David Nolan/Snow White | Mary Margaret Blanchard, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut, this is me taking pot shots at abusive captain duckling tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-01-16 19:23:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21276416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_irish_mayhem/pseuds/slow-smiles
Summary: The plan to tell Emma’s parents about her relationship with Killian gets derailed when she is kidnapped by the Dark One. Revelations, reunions, adventures, and smut ensue.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The grand finale to the My Princess, My Pirate series, which was originally just supposed to be PORN but this definitely has way, way more plot than porn. Enjoy? This is part one of three. Reading the predecessors isn’t necessary, but would probably be helpful. 
> 
> Also just... ya know, screw the canon timeline, use your imagination.
> 
> The rating WILL change.

The lazy morning on the ship turns into a relaxed afternoon on horseback in the woods. They’d decided, wrapped up in bedsheets and enjoying each other slowly and lazily once more before they dressed for the day, that they will tell her parents about them tonight. No matter how busy they get, the king and queen always make time for a family dinner on the last evening of the week, and Emma had thought that it would be a good time to introduce him.

“No use waiting anymore, right?” she’d said, breathless as his lips traced across her belly.

“A capital idea, love,” he’d agreed before his mouth descended on her quim with hunger and tenderness both, and conversation had become one word responses after that.

Now, Emma glances over at him and cocks her head to the left. “It’s just right this way,” she says and bears her horse in the direction she’d indicated, and Killian follows. His talents at navigation are more aptly suited to seafaring than forest tracking, so he is glad to allow Emma to take the lead here.

They crest a gentle rise, and Killian finally sees a break in the trees ahead. “C’mon,” Emma says and nudges her horse to a canter, and he follows on his own steed. Even before they reach the treeline, it’s possible to see the bright colors in the clearing Emma’s led them to.

A truly impressive array of wildflowers blanket the small valley, more of a gentle dip in the earth sheltered by hills than anything else. The stunning range of color is almost shocking in it’s vibrance—bright blues and violets, mixed with some softer reds, creams, and yellows, a dash of firelight orange here and there. It’s the type of scene that if a painter captured it, critics would call it unrealistic in its gaudiness.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathes, and then dismounts.

Emma’s answering grin is wide as she follows him off her horse. “My parents used to take me here a lot when I was younger.” She makes a turn, rotating and squinting at the treeline.

“What are you looking for, love?”

“Ah!” she exclaims, dropping her horse’s reins and flitting over to a fat-trunked cottonwood. “This is the tree where my mom first taught me to shoot.” Killian follows and notices the red rings that have faded with time and weather, but the many arrow-sized gouges in the tree, clustered around the center, are the true indicator of what this used to be.

He runs his fingers over the worn wood at the bullseye. “Looks like you were a natural,” he says.

Emma laughs. “Hardly. Most of those were Mom showing off, though she kept saying it was ‘for demonstration purposes.’ Don’t get me wrong, I’m pretty good now, but I was always better with a sword.”

“Pirate,” he says fondly.

She laughs again. “Maybe when we retire.”

It occurs to Killian then that once they tell her parents and follow through on Emma’s plan, he will become royalty. Merely prince consort, but royalty nonetheless. There’s still a part of him that chafes at the concept of monarchy, of privilege and power being born into rather than earned with painstaking work and bloodshed, of corruption unchecked by any other authority—

But then he looks to Emma and she challenges every notion of royalty he has ever had. She is kind and generous, compassionate and courageous; she is capable of doing great things with the tremendous power that will be handed to her when her parents eventually step down. He will be only too happy to serve at her side. 

“Imagine that,” he replies, turning towards her. “We’ll call our ship ‘The Crone & The Codger’ and we’ll show all the young up and comers how it’s really done with our white hair and rickety joints that we keep in order with regular sword fights.”

Emma snorts and steps into him, putting her arms around his waist and just holding him close. He buries his hand in her hair, stroking through the strands. It’s warmed through from the sun, and it glints off the shining strands between his fingers.

“I like imagining a future with you,” she murmurs into his chest.

“And I, you.”

“Especially when it means we’ll end up as old, saggy pirates.”

“Oi,” he says, “who says we’ll be saggy?”

She pulls back enough to meet his gaze. “That much direct sunshine on our faces all the time? We’ll be saggy for sure.”

“Well, with that attitude—”

She disrupts him with a kiss, which he gladly returns.

When she pulls away, she maintains her grip on his neck and on his lapel. “I can’t—I don’t know how to tell you how much it means that you’re willing to go through all this royal garbage.”

“I have a hell of an incentive,” he says. “An empty life on the high seas where in all likelihood I’ll meet my maker at the end of an enemy sword? Or a life lived with the person I love?”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“Because it is to me. Your title, your duties, the court, whatever else—they’re… I can’t say inconsequential, but they aren’t nearly the hurdle you think they are. You’re worth any pain or inconvenience. You are remarkable, Princess Emma White, the Swan of Misthaven.”

Emma closes her eyes and bites her lip to keep from laughing. “You’re cheesy at shit.”

He barks out a laugh. “My grand declarations, met with naught but scorn? You wound me.”

“Sorry,” she says, tone not matching her words, and leans up to give him a peck. “I love you.”

They end up on a blanket in the midst of the clearing, sharing a small package of salami and aged cheddar between them, talking and giggling and kissing. They keep making plans, silly ones, serious ones, ones that involve Killian repainting the entirety of the palace bright purple, ones that make excited anticipation solidify in his gut. After nearly six years of secrecy, silence, hints of fear if they were on the cusp of being discovered, to revel in the possibility of openness is intoxicating. The bubble of happiness and love they’ve found themselves in is almost tangible, like a shield that makes them untouchable, invincible.

Oh, how wrong they are.

Killian hears him before he sees him.

The giggle that haunted his nightmares and fueled his revenge for hundreds of years echoes through the clearing like a pistol shot.

Emma’s gaze fixates over his shoulder, a look of horror taking over her face.

“Well isn’t this a _picture_.”

Emma and Killian are both on their feet and facing their intruder in an instant. Both of their hands go to their hips where their swordbelts normally are, but Killian curses when he realizes they left all their weaponry on their horses, grazing on the other side of the clearing.

Rumplestiltskin stands not five paces away, looking for all the world like he is having a grand old time. He looks the same as Killian remembers—the wide, predatory grin; the metallic, gold-hued skin; the dark, scaled vest; the gnarled hands; and perhaps worst of all, the light in his eyes that flares at the promise of cruelty.

Killian can’t help but growl, “Crocodile.”

This is true: Killian has not thought much of his old nemesis in the last six years.

This is also true: Killian has never forgotten the grief and rage rotting and fermenting in his gut, fueled by the image of Milah being murdered by the man who was her husband while he had no choice but to scream and watch someone else he loves die while he can do absolutely nothing about it.

This is the most relevant truth: Killian is _terrified_ that it is going to happen again.

Emma bends down, and when she stands, she has a small knife in her hand. It was probably tucked in her boot, and Killian feels like he is going to be sick because he loves her, _he loves her_, he loves her so much and it’s going to happen again, just like Milah, just like Liam, and he’s—

“Emma, _run_,” he whispers urgently. He can buy her some time if he can just get close enough to rip out the Crocodile’s throat with his hook; that will at least slow him down.

He charges forward without waiting, hoping that he can rely on the element of surprise, but he’s frozen in place before he takes a second step, his body enveloped in translucent red magic that tickles across his skin like a breeze.

“You already tried that once, dearie,” Rumplestiltskin says, wagging a finger and grinning. As though letting her in on an inside joke, he says to Emma, “He stabbed me right—” he dramatically jabs a finger into his chest, right over where a heart would normally lie, “here. In case you can’t tell, it didn’t work.” He giggles in that maddening way of his once more.

“If you touch her I will end you,” Killian hisses, “I will—”

“Oh save it,” the Crocodile says with an impatient wave of his hand. “You haven’t managed to kill me for your last love, and it’s been what, a few hundred years?”

Between one heartbeat and the next, a knife flies through the air and embeds itself right in Rumplestiltskin’s left eye.

The creature screeches, blood spilling from the wound. He bends at the waist, turning away from them slightly, his hands going up to his face. Killian is flabbergasted because Emma just hurt the Dark One with nothing but a knife, how can that be _possible_—

Then Emma is at his elbow, pulling him despite the magic keeping him frozen. “Emma, just leave me,” he says, desperate and hoarse. “Go.” The Crocodile might be hurt, but Killian knows it won’t be for long.

“Fuck that,” she says, and pulls harder. “How strong can this magic really be—”

Emma’s startled shout cuts him to his core when an unseen force yanks her off her feet and away from him.

The Crocodile has straightened again, one hand extended towards Emma as his magic drags her struggling form closer, her bloodied knife clenched in his other. His left eye is unrecognizable and blood pours down the side of his face. In truth, Killian hadn’t known until this moment that he bled at all.

Emma comes to a stop next to the Crocodile, and he pulls her to her feet with magic. She’s facing away from Killian, so he can’t see her eyes, and he would give anything to switch places with her, give anything to be the one to die today—

“That,” the Crocodile says, “was not very nice.”

Emma spits in his face.

The imp just cackles again, unconcerned and amused. “You are lucky I need you, dear little Emma. I’ve removed intestines for lesser offenses.” He makes a twisting gesture with the knife, pantomiming splitting Emma’s stomach open without touching her.

“Please don’t do this,” Killian pleads, his anger caving in and leaving only pure fear in its wake. “Take me instead. I’ll do anything, please just—”

Suddenly he finds his air supply quite thoroughly gone. His chest heaves against the invisible pressure on his throat, his limbs still frozen.

“As it turns out,” the Crocodile says through clenched teeth, “I need your girlfriend, but not you. I’ve wanted this for a long time.”

“No!” Emma exclaims. “I’ll do whatever you want if you let him go; right here, right now, no strings attached. He gets to leave right now, alive and absolutely, completely unaltered.”

_Emma, no._ He wants to scream the words at her, but his vision is swimming with black and he still can’t breathe. 

“Smart, dearie, to make your request so clear. Smarter than your parents ever were.” Rumplestiltskin seems to consider it, tapping the bloody blade against his chin. “I accept,” he says. “I can always kill him on another day.”

“What? No—”

Killian doesn’t hear the rest of her reply because both she and the Crocodile are enveloped in red smoke and are gone in a blink.

The magic falls away from him immediately, and Killian collapses.

Emma is alive, for now.

He is alive, for now.

He feels the grief and rage that never truly left him stirring, because leaving him alive will be the last mistake the Crocodile ever makes—

But beneath that is the rationality of three hundred years spent searching for a way to kill the Dark One.

And Killian knows that he is going to need help.

* * *

The late afternoon sun streams through the window, illuminating a pale column of dust until it reaches the round table at the center of the council room. With the heat of late summer still upon them, the fireplace against the wall lies dormant—the only real activity in the room comes from it’s two occupants. David and Snow are preparing the agenda for the council meeting later in the evening when one of their pages bursts into the room rather unceremoniously, causing both of them to jump out of their seats. 

“Thomas!” David says, half greeting, half surprised exclamation. “Where’s the fire?”

The joke doesn’t go over well. Thomas is gasping for air, and manages a polite, “Apologies, Majesties. I don’t come bearing pleasant news.” He remembers some of the royal etiquette then and bows, but doesn’t straighten back up immediately, bracing his hands on his knees. 

“Thomas,” Snow prods, stepping forward and placing a hand on the page’s shoulder. Her voice is kind when she asks, “What is the matter that has you sprinting a marathon to see us?” She shoots David a small smile. 

Thomas, while a kind-hearted soul, has a history of making mountains of molehills. Once, Snow and David raced in a panic to the kitchens where Thomas reported that a sixteen-year-old Emma had been with a gentleman caller unchaperoned, only to find Emma visiting with Eric and Ariel’s son Adrien, who is rather famously and unabashedly not interested in women. There was the time he’d had half the palace shepherds in a panic when he thought he’d seen a wolf amongst their small flock of sheep, only to find it had been one of the herding dogs all along. Of course, who could forget the time he’d burst into the council room with urgent news that the royal convoy from Agrabah had arrived early and there was no one at the docks to greet them, only for David and Snow to race to the harbor and find that the ship was still hours away due to the tides, set to arrive on schedule.

He’s a good kid, David knows, but hardly has a good judgement of urgency.

Thomas finally straightens and swallows. “I’m afraid this is no laughing matter.”

“What is it?” David asks.

“The princess has been kidnapped.”

“What?!” David and Snow both exclaim.

“According to Captain Humbert, it would appear she’s been taken by a pirate band led by Captain Hook.”

“How in the world—” David begins, his mind seeming to only function in fits and spurts as he tried to process what Thomas has told them.

Yes, they hadn’t been able to find Emma anywhere this morning, and her horse was gone so they’d assumed she’d gone out for a long ride to cool off after the ball last night. But Emma knows to stay away from dangerous ports, and she is a formidable opponent with a sword (an opponent who had surpassed David in the last five or so years with her swordsmanship; she’d been practicing on her own as she’d definitely picked up some new, flashy tricks that he’d never taught her.) Even if she was disarmed, Emma is no stranger to throwing a good punch—so how did this happen?

“Have we received a ransom note?” Snow asks, the picture of a composed queen, but David can see the way her breathing is picking up. She’s starting to get scared.

“No, that’s—that’s the odd part. Captain Hook himself rode up to the castle gates and announced that the princess had been kidnapped.”

“_What_.” David has no other words.

“I knew Captain Hook was bold, but I didn’t realize he was that bold,” Snow says.

“He’s blazed past bold, overshot brazen, and landed himself right at stupidity.” David glances back to Thomas. “I assume he is in the dungeon?”

Thomas nods. “Captain Humbert took him into custody immediately upon his arrival. He has been—” Thomas winces, “very vocal about his displeasure.”

Snow makes a sound not unlike a growl. “Well, if he doesn’t care for the accommodations, he’d do well to not kidnap people and show up at their homes looking for hospitality.”

“That’s not exactly—w-well he’s insisting that he wasn’t the one who kidnapped her.”

“Oh Lords,” David says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “_What_ is going on?”

At that moment, the double doors of the council room swing open and Captain of the Guard Graham Humbert enters.

“Graham,” Snow breathes in relief. “Thomas, send word to the other councilors that Emma has been kidnapped, and they are to convene immediately. You’re dismissed.”

Thomas bows and scurries out of the room.

“Okay, Graham, please tell us what the _hell_ is going on.” Snow says. 

While not as young as he used to be, Graham Humbert has aged well. He could likely pass for someone a decade his junior if it weren’t for the hair that had gone peppery in his fiftieth year. As it is, he’s still spry and athletic, and his mind quick as a whip. If there’s anyone who can tell them what exactly is happening in their dungeons, it’s him.

“What’s Thomas relayed?” he asks.

“That Emma’s been kidnapped, likely by Captain Hook, who rode up to our gates like a madman, at which point you took him into custody,” David says. “Oh, and he’s claiming he’s not the one who kidnapped her. Sound about right?”

Graham sighs deeply, the pauldrons at his shoulders rising and falling with the depth of it. “Thomas's account is accurate. And as for Hook, he seems—not like a pirate who is out to extract a ransom. He is positively desperate to talk to the two of you, and he won’t tell me what about exactly. He has been completely insistent that the Dark One is the one who kidnapped Emma, not him.”

David’s hackles go up. “The Dark One.”

“No one has heard from him in decades, not since everything he’d planned for Regina fell apart; why would he resurface now?” Snow asked, and David could tell she was ready to dismiss the possibility.

Graham shrugged. “We have no way to confirm his story. Captain Hook is a well-known con man with a rumored feud with the Dark One. He could be trying to get our help with some sort of revenge, using Emma as leverage.”

Admittedly, that sounded more reasonable than Rumplestiltskin deciding to come out of the woodwork after almost thirty years of absolute silence.

A beat passes. “I want to talk to him,” Snow says.

“Your Majesty, I don’t think that would be wise to give him exactly what he wants—”

“He has Emma, Graham,” she snaps, “and I am fully prepared to give him absolutely _anything_ he wants, quite frankly, to assure her safety.”

He bristles, “I want Emma safe, too, Snow.”

David glances between them, his wife and one of their most loyal friends. “I think we should talk to him,” David finally says. They both look over. “What’s the harm? If nothing comes of it, we will leave him to you,” he nods at Graham, “and if he unintentionally reveals something while trying to swindle us? All the better.”

Graham nods. “As you wish.”

“Bring him to the throne room immediately. We’ll be waiting,” Snow says.

With a salute and a heel turn, Graham is gone.

As soon as the door closes behind the captain, Snow’s posture sags and she places a supporting hand on the council table. Her breathing goes deep and rapid, and her other hand goes to her abdomen. “David, I might need you to loosen my corset.”

“Snow,” he says, trying to hide his own fear for his wife’s benefit, “We need to stay calm.”

“Calm!” There is fire in her eyes when she turns to him. “My daughter may have been kidnapped by pirates for ransom and you’re telling me to stay _calm_?!” Her fast breathing turns into quick pacing, “Here we were assuming that she just wanted to get out of the palace for a while, but what if our security has gotten so lax that we basically invited them to take her—” she claps a hand over her mouth, and David steps up behind her and takes hold of her shoulders to halt her pacing. 

“Snow,” he says again. “I’m scared too, but we absolutely cannot panic.” He reaches for the laces on her corset, and loosens the first tie. He doesn’t need a passed-out wife to deal with on top of the missing daughter.

David continues as he pulls each crossed lace enough to give Snow more breathing room, “It will take a few minutes for Graham to bring Hook up to the throne room—”

“Gods, and Captain Hook of all the pirates,” Snow breathes, but she sounds less frantic.

“I know,” David soothes. He ties off the corset again, and pulls Snow around to face him. Her arms immediately go around him. “We have a few minutes before we need to be there. And I need badass bandit Snow to come out, all right?”

“Right,” she says, and he can hear the smile.

He pulls away and frames her face with his hands. “We’ll be together the whole time.”

“Together,” Snow repeats, their mantra, and David is so proud of her.

“Let’s go.”

* * *

The throne room is not their usual forte. Typically they receive guests in the main foyer, the ball room, the dining hall, or the myriad of tea rooms and libraries that are perfectly adequate in style and function. However, there are occasional moments when the intimidation and sheer majesty that comes along with sitting on the thrones in the massive, ostentatious hall is necessary.

He and Snow are seated side-by-side when the massive double doors at the opposite end of the room are pulled open by the two attendants, revealing two guards with a shackled man between them. Graham stands slightly ahead and to the right of the prisoner, and leads the group down the long room towards the dais where the thrones are raised above the floor.

Captain Hook is not what David imagined. He imagined someone much older, perhaps with a cocky swagger and a feathered cap. Someone who would be described by innkeepers as eight feet tall and broad as a bear across. Someone who could inhabit all the legends surrounding them. Someone larger than life.

But this man is not much older than Emma, and looks—desperate. _Frightened_. Almost small in a way that doesn’t seem to be this man’s true nature. Apparently, a long, black leather coat and vest had been taken off his person when he’d been arrested, along with at least seven weapons, as well as the brace that holds his infamous hook. He only has on a loose black shirt, leather pants, and a set of boots.

He is, to David’s surprise, entirely underwhelming.

To compensate for the lack of hand that handcuffs would require to work, it seems that Graham has shackled the pirate’s ankles and just above his elbows to do the job.

“On your knees before the Queen and King,” Graham orders tersely when they arrive at the dais. The guards flanking him don’t wait for Hook to obey before pushing him down before them. Up close, he looks pale and his eyes swollen and red-rimmed. David feels strangely ill at the sight of a man clearly wrung out and forced to his knees. 

Hook’s first words to them are strained, “Please, your Majesties, you have to believe me. The Dark One has Emma, and I—”

“You’ll speak when you’re spoken to,” Snow interrupts, the imperiousness of her position ringing in the grand hall.

“With all due respect, _no_,” Hook hisses, surprising David, “we don’t have time for this rigamarole, we need to find—”

A well-placed kick from a guard to the pirate’s abdomen cuts off his next words. “Shut your mouth, pirate.”

“Sims,” Graham snaps. The one who’d kicked Hook, Sims, looks chastened beneath his visor. “This isn’t the Evil Queen’s kingdom anymore. Act like it.”

“Yes, sir.”

A beat of awkwardness passes before Snow speaks again. “Where is the princess?”

“I’ve already told you,” Hook says. “The Dark One kidnapped her.”

David cocks a brow. “And you know this how? Do you work for Rumplestiltskin?”

“I would rather die,” he responds, clipped and matter-of-fact. A short silence follows, as Hook seems to search for the right words. “I was with her when the bastard took her.”

David asks, “And why was Emma with you? She’s not stupid, she wouldn’t dabble with common criminals for a laugh.”

“Choose your next words wisely,” Snow warns, “because my husband was rather generous when he described you as a common criminal. You have more than earned a death penalty in many kingdoms who would be all too willing to take you off our hands.”

David refuses the urge to look over at Snow, needing to present a united front. Snow is hardly an iron-fisted ruler, but her threats always have teeth, and to say that he’s surprised she’s threatening this man with death would be an understatement.

Hook’s eyes drop to the floor, and the breath he takes is shaky. He whispers something David can’t hear into the floor before he looks up. “Because I love her.” It’s quiet, but… definitive and calm in a way David did not expect. It’s also the absolute last answer either of them were anticipating.

“Excuse me?” Snow says.

Louder now, Hook says, “I love her. We have been secretly courting for the last six years.”

David’s jaw drops, and he doesn’t need to look at Snow to know that she looks much the same. “That’s—”

“How—”

“You’re—”

“_That’s_—”

“_How_—”

“That’s impossible!” Snow finally settles on. “She would have told us!”

“Would she have?” Hook responds, in that same sure, quiet tone as before. One that makes David want to believe him, despite what it would mean. It would mean that their daughter has been lying to them for years, has been keeping a massive secret for over half a decade.

It could also mean Hook is just a very, very good actor.

“Yes,” Snow insists.

“Why would I come here if I’m not telling the truth?” Hook asks. “It would be suicide to ride to your gates and offer myself up. And since I do, in fact, value my own life, well.” The intensity of Hook’s gaze is startling, as though by sheer force of will alone he can make them believe him. “No one has asked for ransom. I haven’t asked for a single thing except that you help me rescue her.”

“This is preposterous,” Snow declares, “You are a pirate and a villain. I might not know much about my daughter’s romantic tastes, but I’m sure they don’t stray towards the violent sociopath side of the scale. Captain Humbert—” Graham stands at attention, “—take this man back to the dungeon. We shall see about extradition after we find out where they are hiding Emma.”

Hook’s eyes widen in panic when he realizes his story isn’t taking hold. “Please!” The guards force him to his feet, but he refuses to move from where he stands in front of the dais. “You have to believe me! She is in very real danger and you can’t just—”

“Let’s go,” Graham says, and the guards begin to drag the pirate backwards.

“He’s going to kill her!” Hook begins to struggle more violently, dropping a shoulder and throwing it into the guard at his left. A loud _oof!_ sounds from the man, and Graham orders two guards along the wall to assist. The throne room knights converge on the pirate. His struggles had been adequate to delay the two guards, but four succeed in beginning to drag him back towards the doors. “Please, you have to believe me!” he shouts again.

David finally spares a glance over at Snow, and despite her cold expression, he can see in her eyes that she’s anything but certain. “We need to see how many councilors have arrived, because we need to convene _immediately_,” Snow says to him. She’s barely holding it together, and so she turns and starts to head for their private exit. David follows.

“Her favorite color is yellow because it reminds her of buttercups!” Hook finally yells, voice hoarse and breaking over the syllables. 

Both he and Snow freeze. 

“She has a set of freckles on her back that looks like Cassiopeia,” he continues, fighting against the increasingly frustrated hands of the guards. David looks back and sees Graham hesitating. “She adores cinnamon and cannot stand horseradish. Her horse is named Tuppence because of her favorite book when she was a child, and—and she always brought home birds with broken wings and rats with missing paws because she couldn’t stand to see a creature in pain. She’s got a—a beautiful voice even though she hates to sing. She curses like a sailor and I love her more than life itself, and even if you execute me here and now I beg you to please save her.”

“Snow,” David says, and he can’t deny the truth now. This pirate, for all the difficulty it might cause them, loves their daughter. He would have to to know these things. Even if she were captured, it’s not like Emma would share things like that with someone holding her hostage.

“Let him go,” Snow commands, and descends from the dais and strides towards Hook.

Graham has been the Captain of their guard about as long as Emma has been alive—he knows the princess almost as well as her own parents—and commands the guards to release their charge. He reaches for the keys at his belt, and the shackles on Hook are soon on the floor.

Hook, for his part, looks flabbergasted, and his eyes dart up to Snow and David, who stop just short of him.

Snow looks contrite, but overriding that is a deep sympathy. She tries, “I—” but can’t seem to find the words. David is only a little shocked when she closes the distance and wraps Hook in a hug that he was absolutely not expecting.

His arms remain frozen, his eyes mildly panicked, his entire posture screaming indecision. David idly wonders how long it’s been since someone hugged him—besides Emma, he supposes.

Snow pulls back but leaves her hands on Hook’s shoulders. “I still have a lot of questions,” she says slowly, “but I think we can manage to hold off on those until Emma is back safely with us.”

Hook sighs then, the last bit of overt tension draining from his frame. Now, the only tension remaining is in his eyes and his jaw as he replies, “Aye.” He squares his shoulders in a way that gives David pause because he looks—very nearly military in that moment. “We should pool what we know. Come up with a plan of attack.”

David nods. “We should convene with the Council.”

Snow nods, and gestures over her shoulder to Hook. “This way.”

* * *

He is introduced to the small gathering as Captain Hook and an ally to the throne, with no mention being made of his brief time in custody. They’d given him back all that had been taken off him when he’d been arrested, so he feels a little less naked standing in front of the Council.

(Admittedly, riding straight to the palace and announcing that their future sovereign had been kidnapped was not his best plan by half. In terms of efficiency, however, of getting over the awkwardness of having to tell Emma’s parents that they’d been intimately involved? It functioned as well as anything else he might’ve been able to come up with had his mind not been occupied with worry for Emma, and the myriad of ways he wanted to slowly and painfully kill the Crocodile.)

He knows how rumor mills work, especially in close quarters, so he figures they all likely know about it by now, even if they haven’t heard about the scene he’d caused in the throne room. However, instead of questioning him, they seem content to follow the lead of their queen and king in planning the rescue effort for Emma.

“So Hook,” asks the woman who was introduced as Mulan, “you’ve hunted the Dark One for many years. I imagine what you know could fill a library--why is it you need the crown’s assistance?”

“Because I’ve hunted him for years and yet he still lives,” Killian answers. And that’s the real rub of this whole ordeal, isn’t it? If Killian had succeeded, if he’d taken the Crocodile down years ago, if he hadn’t failed over and over and over again to find a way to successfully kill the beast, then Emma would be perfectly safe. “I’m not willing to risk Emma’s life for my own pride.”

If any of them are surprised by his lack of formal address of their princess, they don’t show it. The woman to Mulan’s left is the next to speak--Ruby, her name is. “What strategic intelligence can you offer, then?”

“There are plenty of things out there that can kill him, despite what he’d have anyone think. Weapons to cut immortal ties, weapons that can end curses. Eternal traps, as well. He feared Pandora’s Box more than just about anything I can remember.” He leans forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the table. “But as far as I can tell, he has found every single item that can trap him or do him harm, and has locked it away in his castle. Or he’s put an impossible enchantment on it, like he did Excalibur.”

“An impossible enchantment?” asks Ruby.

Killian shrugs. “I can’t remember the verbiage of it, but it’s trapped in an ancient, enchanted stone. Since Rumplestiltskin himself couldn’t draw it out, he cast a spell that would turn anyone who tried into dust.

“It’s a fool’s errand to seek Excalibur,” Killian concludes. “You’d throw more lives away trying to break the spell than it would save.”

“So what do you suggest?” Snow asks.

Killian sighs. “He keeps the most dangerous of his treasures in an underground vault.”

“So we break in, grab what we need, and then we’re good?” David asks.

“If it were that simple, I’d’ve been able to kill him a century ago.”

“Wait, how long ago?” David asks.

Killian winces a little. “I’m a bit older than I look,” he says, and quickly moves on to avoid any lingering questions about his age. “But the vault is enchanted to the teeth, and it doesn’t have any windows or doors. Completely physically sealed off.”

“He would need a--a vent or something, right? Air pressure might make it collapse otherwise,” Mulan suggests.

Killian leans back again. “Magic. And I’ve tried to get in every way a layperson without magic can. Teleportation scrolls, tunneling spells, magic beans. All have failed. What we need is an extremely powerful magic user who is able to bypass the security enchantments he’s put on the vault that can teleport us in. And before you suggest it,” Killian warns, “no, fairy magic will not work. Even pixie dust won’t make a dent.”

“We know such a magic user,” Snow says.

David looks over at her. “We do?”

Snow ignores him. “She lives in a village on the way to the Dark One’s castle, just outside our kingdom.”

“Snow,” warns Ruby, trepidation on her face. The rest of the councilors look equally nervous.

David seems to catch up to his wife’s thoughts at that moment. “Oh no. Snow, you can’t be serious.”

She looks over at David. “I am. Emma’s life could very well be in danger. Regina is our best bet.”

Killian finally realizes why her suggestion caused such a stir. “Regina? Your mean the Evil Queen who ruled your kingdom a few decades back? Waged war against you two personally? Who murdered the king, your father, if I’m not mistaken?”

“The very same,” Snow says coolly.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but as I understand it, there is no love lost between you three. What makes you think she’ll help?” Killian asks.

Snow’s expression is steely when she answers, “She owes me one.” She meets the eyes of the Council as she continues, “Both David and I will ride out with Hook. A smaller strike force for a mission like this is ideal, and approaching Regina with just the three of us looks a lot less suspicious than sending a few soldiers or a messenger in our stead. She’ll be more willing to help us if we ask her personally.”

“And then you ride home after we enlist the sorceress,” Killian says, concluding the plan. It’s not an awful one--Regina is certainly powerful, and she was trained by the Dark One, so she might know him and his castle even better than Killian. The story of how she stopped from casting the Dark Curse is muddled, and there are at least ten or so versions swirling around, but the one consistent is Rumplestiltskin’s meddling. The old queen has a penchant for revenge, so perhaps it won’t be so hard to convince her once she learns he plans to kill the old beast--

“No, we’ll be going to save Emma ourselves,” Snow says, and Killian’s musings screech to a halt.

“What?” he asks.

“We’re coming,” David affirms. “Just because we’re older doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten how to fight.”

“Besides,” Snow adds with a strained smile, “It’s been too long since David and I have had a proper adventure. And knowing Rumplestiltskin, having a True Love’s Kiss handy will probably be wise.”

Killian looks around at the room, and is shocked to see nods in agreement.

“Are you all _mad_?”

“Pardon?” Ruby asks, aghast.

Killian scoffs. “I’m the only one not sitting on a political council, and yet somehow I am the only one who sees the blatant idiocy in sending the only two people who have a legal claim over the throne after their only heir who is being held by a homicidal maniac.” Around the table, he’s met with some contemplative looks, others blank. His gaze finally makes it back to Snow and David, whose silent conversation ends after a few moments and they turn to look at him.

Snow says, “We haven’t had dealings with the Dark One since before Emma was born--”

“Did you ever make a deal agreeing to give him your firstborn?” Killian interrupts urgently, a wave of memory coming over him like suffocation, remembering Milah’s despair and fear that the deal her husband made might extend to any of _her_ future children (_their_ children, had been the undercurrent.)

“No,” David says vehemently. “Absolutely not.”

“The reason we stopped--” Snow shakes her head. “Look, we stopped making deals with him when Regina revealed how far his machinations went and she didn’t cast the Dark Curse. He always wanted something from David and me. We weren’t so dense to think that the price for all the deals we made was always so light--he must’ve needed us for something.” She straightens her shoulders. “I’m hoping that’s still true.”

Killian bristles. “Hope is a veneer, not a bedrock.”

Snow tilts her head. “You’re awfully cynical, aren’t you, Hook?”

He laughs sharply at that. Emma had asked him the exact same question many years ago. He gives Snow the same answer he’d given Emma, “Not cynical. Realistic.”

“And having hope isn’t realistic?”

Six years ago, he would’ve answered without hesitation. Six year ago, he hadn’t had any hope. Now, his hope sits in the clutches of his worst enemy.

His answering smile is humorless. “Haven’t always had the best track record with it, I’m afraid.” 

He takes stock of the room again. None of the councilors seem inclined to fight the decision their monarchs have made; at most, several of them look favorably in his direction, but none are willing to protest. He raises his hand and hook in defeat. “I can’t stop you. I’ve stated my objections. I came for help, no matter how I can get it.”

David rises from his seat. “Trust us, Hook. We will get Emma back.”

He knows that they both believe that. Maybe there is something to the stories he’d always heard in Neverland, about the power of belief, but he has always been a pragmatist. He isn’t so prideful to think that once they have Regina on their side, their fight will be easily won. No, he knows that anything worth fighting for like this is paid for in blood.

He’ll just have to make sure his is the only one spilled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon is play-dough in this universe so just.... go with it.

Emma awakens with a sharp gasp on the floor of a massive chamber with no windows. The stones are cool under her back, but her skin feels hot, her heart racing. She sits up slowly with a groan. She feels hungover, but multiplied by seventy. A sharp headache makes her feel like her skull is being split in two, oppressive fogginess makes focusing on anything nearly impossible, and a pressing, cloying nausea pushes insistently against her gag reflex. How did she—

The last thing she remembers is the clearing, making the deal with Rumplestiltskin to keep Killian alive, and now here she is. Wherever here is.

The empty chamber is massive, even bigger than the ballroom at the palace, with several support columns evenly dotting the floor in fifteen foot intervals. The air feels dank and heavy, and Emma wonders if this is an underground dungeon of some kind. The stone making up the walls and floor is dark, rough like limestone, and the space is dimly lit by sparse torches along the walls. She doesn’t notice any doors.

She rolls herself to her knees, and at that point the nausea wins the fight and Emma throws up. As she heaves against the floor, her mind is spinning, barely able to pick up a thread of thought aside from  _ where am I _ and  _ how did I get here _ .

“There’s no way to avoid the physical aftereffects of having a suppression hex removed, I’m afraid.”

She wishes she could say that when she heard Rumplestiltskin’s voice behind her, she leapt to her feet and demanded to know where she was being held. She does try, but as soon as she gets to her feet and turns, a wave of dizziness and nausea knocks her back to her knees, her hands bracing on the floor. She can’t help the miserable whine that escapes her at the feeling of illness and discomfort running through her.

“And unfortunately for you,” he continues, the click of his boots against the stone ominous in the quiet of the chamber, “the more powerful you are, the more severe the side effects.”

She wrangles enough clarity of mind to say, “What are you talking about?” before her body starts to heave again.

The ringing in her ears doesn’t drown out the sound of him saying, “I must admit, I was surprised to find one on you. The fairies have never dabbled in hexes before to my knowledge, and it was surprisingly well-crafted.”

“What?” Emma chokes out again. Gods, she feels  _ awful _ . (Even worse than the last time she’d drunk whiskey and blacked out for the entire night. To this day, she doesn’t remember going to sleep or waking up; she had come to, still drunk and vomiting with her pants laying nearby, behind a blacksmith’s forge. Thankfully, Killian had awoken behind the shop next door, doing only mildly better than she, and found her in her sorry state, and they mutually assured their hungover partner got home. This had been relatively early in their courtship, and it was strangely freeing in a way, to see each other essentially at their worst and most stupid.)

“Ding-ding-ding, dearie,” he chirps, so close to her ear, she nearly falls sideways in surprise. How did she not hear him get closer? “You’re a lucky winner.”

“Of what?” she asks, hopelessly confused and desperate for someone to just explain what the hell is going on.

She turns her head to finally look at him directly. His smile is predatory. “Magic.”

Emma barely hears him, or registers his meaning exactly, because her body has quite suddenly decided it’s had enough. Her head drops, she sees white sparkling at the edges of her vision, then sparking across her hands, and before she can say anything in response, she passes out.

* * *

It’s just over a day’s-worth of hard riding from the palace in Misthaven to the village just across the border where the former Queen Regina lives, and given that they set out in late afternoon, the time comes to set up camp sooner rather than later.

The quiet cooperation between the three of them is not as awkward as Killian imagined it might be. The King and Queen move around each other like a well-choreographed ballet. He’s quietly amused by the two royals in travelling gear (that is far too nice to truly blend in) who are extremely well-versed in camp craft. He fills in where necessary, and by the time the darkness settles, when the light from the moon and stars are barely enough to see by, David volunteers to take first watch. Snow thanks him, collapses into her bedroll, and is asleep in minutes.

Killian finds himself staring at the orange flames next to Emma’s father in silence.

Emma is supposed to be with him for this part, he thinks. Emma is supposed to be here to guide him. And he--

He’s not supposed to be this person anymore. This person whose every waking moment is consumed with thoughts of how he wants to watch the life drain from a man’s eyes. With Emma, he likes to think he’s become someone worthwhile. Someone who is a part of something. Someone who he’s proud to say he will be for the rest of his life.

When they decided that it was finally time to tell her parents, come out of the shadows, he thought he’d be able to be that person. That honorable man worthy of care, worthy of note, worthy of their daughter’s hand in marriage, someday.

“You should get some sleep,” David says, startling Killian out of his reverie.

He looks over at the King, the details of his face made sharper in the shadows cast by the flame. He looks every inch a man of royalty--classically handsome, even in his age. A regal bearing, even when seated on a log in the woods. The crow’s feet around his eyes and the smile lines around his mouth only serve to make him look sage and wise, perhaps even kindly.

Killian answers him honestly, “I’m not certain I could if I tried.”

David looks away into the flames, and a heavy beat passes before he says, “You are the absolute last person I ever pictured Emma with.”

“Pardon?”

David chuckles lightly. “I know Snow doesn’t want to acknowledge anything is real until we have Emma back, but I don’t have the same restraint.” Another chuckle, this time deprecating. “Of all the people in the world, of all the potential romantic suitors she’s met, and it’s you.”

Killian doesn’t appreciate the direction this conversation is going. “What we became was up to her as much as me.”

“Sure,” David says, but it doesn’t sound precisely like agreement.

Despite knowing ( _ hoping _ ) that he’s a better man now than he was, he can’t change the fact that he can be a  _ bit _ of a snarky asshole. “There’s clearly something you’d like to yell at me for,” he says, fully prepared to regret his words but unable to stop them from spilling out, “so why don’t you get it out of your system now.”

The King snorts softly. “Which part do I yell at you for? You’re a murdering thief who is apparently over a century old--yeah, I didn’t forget about that--and somehow you’ve managed to capture my only child’s affection.” He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest.

There’s a part of him that says  _ I don’t know how I did it either _ (which is only true in spirit, as he still doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve her love, but knows that Emma’s heart was only won when he consistently proved that he was in this for the long haul.) The part of him that speaks isn’t so keen on sharing that vulnerability, so he replies, “Well, give me time, I might just grow on you.”

David grunts. “Like a wart. Or an infection.”

Killian grits his teeth before giving the King his most winning smile. “I suppose it’s a good thing Emma’s feelings for me aren’t up to you then, isn’t it?”

Emma’s father grimaces, and there’s that honest voice deep down, the one beneath the arrogant, brash exterior, telling him that Emma is going to be quite cross with him for trying to get under David’s skin like this.

“Were you ever in the military?” asks David then, the segue so unexpected Killian is momentarily disarmed.

“Yes,” he answers, surprised, but quickly buckles down again. “Can you instinctively sense when someone’s had a stick thrust firmly up their arse?”

David barks out a laugh and steals a glance over at his sleeping wife to ensure he didn’t wake her. “You sometimes stand like someone who was military. And you certainly commanded attention in the Council room.”

“Be careful, Majesty, that almost sounded like a compliment. Might give the wrong impression.”

“Just an observation,” David says. A beat passes before he asks, “So what made you turn pirate?”

Killian doesn’t miss a beat and answers, “The dismal pay of a Navy man can’t hold a candle to looting a ship for treasure.” He winces at the automatic defense mechanism. This is the father of the woman he loves, his future father-in-law if he has his way.

David doesn’t miss the wince, and a thoughtful expression crosses his face. “You’re a piss poor liar for a pirate.”

“On the contrary, I’m actually quite good,” Killian answers.

“Is it really such a bane for you to tell the truth?”

Killian sighs, trying to quell the urge to deflect with a lie or a glib jibe. “It’s not a time of my life I care to revisit often, even in memory.” He looks over at Emma’s father, whose silent, probing gaze prompts him to continue. “Fighting for king and country means nothing when your king is a corrupt, underhanded, immoral man who’d sooner throw his loyal men into a meat grinder than even sniff something honorable.” Killian looks down at his hook, idly dabbing the point with a finger. “My brother trusted him. It was the last mistake he ever made.”

“I’m sorry,” David offers.

Killian smiles tightly. “My brother was the best man I knew. A good captain, honorable to a fault, as stubborn as the day is long. The king didn’t care that he’d died. Probably didn’t even remember Liam at all. I refused to serve any monarchy from that day forward. They took everything from me,” he says, voice hazy with memory, “so I was going to take everything from them. At least among thieves, there was honor.” He turns to David again, “No offense, mate.”

“None taken,” David replies, then chuckles a bit. “Kind of ironic that you went and fell in love with a princess, then.”

“No one is more aware of that than me,” Killian says. “I suppose that gives us something in common--falling in love with women far above our stations.”

David huffs a laugh, but doesn’t respond for a long while; the only sound is the crackle of wood in their fire, and the distant song of crickets. Killian almost wonders if the King had fallen asleep when he speaks again. “Emma must mean a lot to you, if you’d go through the trouble to rescue her.”

“She means  _ everything _ to me,” Killian gently corrects. “I’d go to the end of the world or time for her. Anything if it means she’s safe.”

“And she for you, I take it?”

Killian smiles. “Yes.” He looks back over at David. “I know that I’m not the ideal you envisioned—”

David waves a hand and interrupts, “No, you’re not. And I’m—” he sighs and tips his face skyward. “Given the lengths that you’re going through to save her—coming to us, getting arrested, potentially almost getting executed, throwing yourself back into this feud with the Dark One—” David looks back at Killian. “Looking at it from that perspective, it’s crazy for me to not approve. Snow and I married for love in spite of the circumstances, and I always hoped for the same for Emma.”

Killian feels like his chest is about to burst. Despite everything, could it be that Emma’s father really can forgive his past mistakes?

“This doesn’t mean I like you,” David quickly says, but it’s without heat.

Killian laughs.

David continues, “If you really want to earn my approval,” he points across the fire to the empty bedroll, “you’ll go to sleep.”

Killian rolls his eyes and replies, “If me having a lie down means that much to you—” Killian mock bows from his seat and then makes his way over to his bedroll. “Then I’m much obliged, Dave.”

“Do not call me Dave.”

“Sorry, can’t hear you over the sound of all the sleep I’m getting.”

David grumbles, but doesn’t say anything further.

Killian stares up at the stars, his thoughts a barely cohesive mess. He wishes Emma were next to him so he could tell her about them, try to make sense of everything that’s happened today. Gods, and it really has all been  _ today _ . He started off this morning with Emma on his ship, not a care in the world and a tremendous weight removed from their shoulders.

Now, here he is, sharing a campsite with the King and Queen of Misthaven, trying to find his footing with his love’s royal parents, and hoping dearly that he doesn’t make a mess of things.

But that itself seems so trivial in the face of Emma being in the clutches of the realm’s greatest evil, and them having no idea why he’s taken her.

Killian’s never been much for spirituality or worshipping deities. He’s been on the sea long enough to know the superstitions, to know about Poseidon and Ursula and Calypso, and all the other gods and goddesses of the sea to whom many crewmen give offerings and pray in hopes for a safe voyage.

But Killian has seen too much, lived through too many years and too many crews to believe their feeble oils and branches, foodstuffs and whispered words make any difference. A strong wind may fall upon murderers or travelers, a storm may wreck a peacekeeping mission or slavers. The sea is nothing if not fair.

But in the darkness, he prays to any deity that might listen that the world might be unfair in Emma’s favor.

* * *

Killian awakens with a jolt, the taste of a bitten off shout in his throat and he sits up. The sky has lightened from pitch black and lit with stars to a deep purple, lightening slightly toward the eastern horizon. Early, and not late enough to say that it is yet dawn. He hadn’t been planning on falling asleep, didn’t think it would be possible with the unrest in his mind, but after a few hours of silence, it appears his body made the choice for him.

His heart is racing in his chest, the lingering images from the nightmare scattering but leaving the fear as a gaping maw in his chest. He runs a hand across his face, trying to gather his wits, but he still feels strung out and uncomfortable. Like all of his defenses have been stripped away.

Perhaps he should take a walk. There was a small creek nearby, and perhaps splashing some water on his face will remind him that the nightmare was just that—a nightmare. A garish, twisted vision from his mind that has been stuck on a fear-anger cycle for far too long.

He wishes again for Emma, to speak to her, to have her set his mind at ease, but she’s—

A shudder goes through him as one of the nightmare’s scenes comes to the forefront of his mind again, Emma without a heart, Emma lying on the deck of his ship, Emma crying and begging for him to save her— 

With a frustrated, flustered huff, he sits up to find Snow White staring at him. The former bandit princess turned conquering queen has a thoughtful expression on her face, as if he were a particularly interested puzzle.

His breath is still coming in pants, and his heart is still racing in his chest, but Killian is still able to manage a realization. “I missed my watch.”

“You didn’t miss it,” Snow says. “I didn’t wake you. I figured it was the least I could do after I had you thrown in prison and then threatened to have you executed.”

Trying vehemently to turn his manner to conversation rather than lingering on the dream, Killian shakes his head and says, “You’ve nothing to apologize for. Were I in your position, I’d’ve done the same thing.”

Snow smiles. “I appreciate that. You seemed like you needed the rest, at least—” she shifts a bit before she can meet his eye again. “For the last few minutes, it sounded like you were having a pretty bad nightmare.”

Killian stiffens. “I hope I didn’t disturb you,” he replies, and moves to stand, do something with his body that could help alleviate the intense feeling of vulnerability under scrutiny now skittering across his skin.

“You didn’t,” Snow says, a kind warmth in her voice and manner that seems like it should calm him rather than rile him.

“That hasn’t happened in a long time,” he says, as if that explanation should be some sort of comfort. To her, to him, he doesn’t know. His heart still races. He refocuses, remembers how to calm himself. Just because he hasn’t had one in a long time, doesn’t mean he’s forgotten how to get over a particularly intense nightmare.

He shifts on the bedroll so that he faces the flames of the fire. A bit burned down from what they were the night before, it’s mostly charcoal now, but it functions well enough. The slow, steady motion of the flames makes his breathing wind down, and he focuses on the beat of his heart. Draws a breath in deeply, and then lets it out slowly. He repeats this until his body doesn’t feel like it’s about to leap out of his skin.

“If I may ask,” Snow says after the long silence, “who is Milah?”

Killian immediately tenses, his jaw subconsciously clenching; this isn’t the same kind of stress he felt when he awoke. It’s the same kind that came along with David asking him questions about his past last night—and Killian’s about tapped out of defense mechanisms at the moment.

Snow says, “You said her name and Emma’s name a few times before you awoke.”

Perhaps it’s not so much that he’s exhausted his energy to defend his vulnerabilities after the nightmare, perhaps it’s just  _ them _ . Snow and David, Emma’s  _ parents _ . They’re the ones who made her, after all, so everything that Emma is came from them. He’s not good at refusing Emma, and her mother seems to hold the same sway over him.

“A long time ago, before Rumplestiltskin was the Dark One, he was just a man. A man with a wife named Milah.”

Gods, but centuries have passed, and it still feels like someone’s pulling his heart out every time he says her name.

Killian continues, “She and her husband had a son, who she loved very much, but couldn’t fix the deep sadness she carried with her. She used to tell me that sometimes it felt as though she were born during a long night, and that darkness lingered with her no matter how often she bathed in the sun.

“And she decided to leave her husband and her son and come away with me.” A knife of grief goes through his abdomen. “We loved each other, and she didn’t see another way out of her unhappiness. So when I left port, she came with me.”

“And her son?” Snow asks.

“We made plans to go back for him that never came to pass.” She’d often confided her insecurity about her motherhood, but had gone no further than that. Privately, he thinks that Milah had been afraid to see her son again, to admit to him that he hadn’t been enough to make her happy where she was.

But that is too intimate a memory to share.

“Later, when he was the Dark One, he found us; accused me of stealing her, as though she were some bauble to be passed around.” He shakes his head, and has to blink a few times to control the wetness at the corners of his eyes. “Milah was brilliant, but she had a bit of a temper. And she just… let the Dark One have it on the deck of my ship. Her words were sharp, and she knew exactly how to hurt him. He didn’t really care for that.” 

He tries to be as clinical as possible with the next bit, “So he lashed me to the mast, pulled her heart out, and crushed it. He cut my hand off that day, too, but the pain of that was nothing compared to losing her.”

Snow silently stands and comes to sit next to him, and reaches out to take his hand. Killian doesn’t remember his mother much, but he imagines that being comforted by her might have felt like this.

He blinks harder against the moisture in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs. “I understand now, why you were so afraid.”

“Oh, I’m still afraid, believe me.”

“Not like that. We’re all afraid for her, but for you… You’ve already seen this story play out once, and it ended horribly for you.”

“Is this the part where you tell me to have hope that it will end well?”

Snow laughs a little at that. “Yes, because if we don’t have hope that something will work out well, then what’s our motivation to do it in the first place? But beyond the hope, you should hold onto that fear too. The most insane, amazing acts of courage happen when someone is the most afraid,” Snow looks into his eyes with a startling intensity, “and we’re probably going to need some  _ really _ insane, amazing acts of courage to get Emma out of there.”

* * *

As soon as dawn breaks, the trio are on their way. They ride until early afternoon, when they slow their horses to a walk and enter the small village. It’s along a bustling trade route, located between the sea and the next nearest inland city, so it’s well on its way to becoming a full-fledged town.

Snow leads them to a small estate just at the edge of the village. A modest home sits to the left of the front gate, and beyond that is a truly impressive equine complex consisting of several pastures that are clearly well-kept, a large A-Frame barn that could likely house dozens of horses based on the size, and a few dirt and grass arenas for competitive riding purposes. It is a spread that is certainly only rivaled by the royal stables, and those might be found wanting compared to this place.

A youth of possibly fifteen or sixteen years is leading a stocky gray mare out of one of the pastures when he spots them. “Greetings!” he calls out. The mare he is leading seems to protest the quickened pace as the boy strides toward them, but he does not slow. “My name is Henry Locksley. Welcome to Riverside Farm.” The lad seems to have a practiced gaze for horses as he takes stock of their three mounts. “If you’re looking for nightly board, we are happy to accommodate.”

Snow dismounts and turns to the young man. “No, we’re actually looking for your stablemaster.”

Henry looks a little surprised. “Oh, okay. She was in the stable with Roland last I saw her. If you’ll follow me, I’m heading there now.”

“Thank you,” Snow says. Killian and David dismount as well and the trio begins following the young Henry towards the stable.

David asks, “So, Henry, does your family live in the village?”

“My family owns the farm, so we live right there,” Henry answers, pointing towards the home at the front of the property.

Snow’s small “oh” of surprise is almost unnoticeable, but Killian glances over to find her face the picture of shock. She quickly schools her features to neutrality once more. “So your family—they work the whole farm by themselves?” she asks, the epitome of polite interest.

Henry nods, an eager tour guide. “My mother is the stablemaster, my father mostly does maintenance and sales and then whatever else my mother tells him to,” he says with a laugh. “My older brother Roland is a whiz with numbers, so he does our bookkeeping. My little sister Eliza is a hand just like me, but she’s also studying to become a blacksmith, so she’s at the forge in town right now.”

“It’s nice that your family is so tightly-knit,” Snow says, her tone changing to barely-constrained curiosity.

Nodding and smiling, Henry doesn’t seem to sense any odd mood from the group before him. “My mom says that love creates happiness, so keeping those you love close to you is the best way to make yourself happy.”

Killian can’t read the expression that crosses Snow’s face then. “Wise advice,” she replies.

They reach the stable doors, and Henry swings them open. Inside, it looks as tidy and clean as the rest of the farm. The center aisle is made of brick, an exorbitant expense that gives the barn a high class sensibility. The brick is flanked by wood-planked stalls, and the low ceiling plays host to a few small swallows in the support beams. A pair of mangy barn cats roam around, but the central focal point at the moment is the woman with her back turned to them.

She stands bent over next to a mid-sized black gelding, his front left hoof propped up between her legs. She’s softly muttering to herself when Henry calls out, “Hey, Mom, there are some people who want to see you.” Killian, Snow, and David all halt by the entrance, but Henry keeps walking, placing the gray mare into an open stall on the right hand side.

She doesn’t turn yet, still bent over the hoof. “Henry, you’re going to have to ride into town and get Eliza home, because Lady Gerhardt’s horse is going to need a new set of shoes.”

Henry groans. “But I was going to take Blizzard on a training run!”

The woman drops the hoof and straightens, and begins to turn. “You can still do that later this aftern—” Her words abruptly drop off when she sees just who her visitors are. The former Evil Queen quickly composes herself and finishes, “This afternoon. Before you go, can you run and get your father? Tell him to meet me at the house.” And with a quick nod of her head, “And make sure their horses get properly hitched and watered.”

The sorceress who once terrorized thousands of people over a dozen kingdoms is dressed in riding breeches and lace-up paddock boots, with a thin, brown leather vest over a red button-up shirt. Her long hair is pulled back in a simple braid. The raven-black locks that once held crowns, and had been so famously, elaborately styled, is shot through with gray streaks. She looks like any other stablemaster across any of the dozen kingdoms where she’d left heartless bodies strewn across the lands. 

Henry glances between Regina and their visitors with poorly-disguised confusion, but Regina gives him a look that quickly has him agreeing and scurrying off to do what she asked.

As the stable door closes behind Henry, Snow steps forward. “Regina.”

“Snow. You’ve aged.”

Not rising to the bait, Snow observes with a noticeable amount of strain in her voice, “You have children.”

“I do.”

Killian meets David’s gaze behind Snow’s back, trying to convey confusion.  _ What should we do? _

David just shakes his head imperceptibly.

Snow continues, “And a husband.”

“Yes. I noticed you brought yours along. Hello, David.”

“Hello, Regina,” he replies, managing a polite tone the just verges on chilly. A shepherd David may have been once, but Killian knows that’s a politician’s voice right there.

Regina’s dark eyes then flit over to Killian, taking him in with a detached air. “This would be a lovely family reunion if you hadn’t decided to bring the Handless Wonder along.”

“Good to see you again, Majesty,” Killian replies, acidic.

Both Snow and David look over at him. “How do you know her?” David asks.

“Former villains support group,” he answers without missing a beat, not wanting to delve into the thorny history he has with the old queen.

“Not important right now,” Snow mutters, and strides forward so that she’s only a few paces from Regina’s side. “We need your help.”

Regina’s mouth purses. “I could hardly be your first choice, unless we're already scraping the bottom of the barrel for help,” she says with a pointed look at Killian before she reaches for a bristled brush in a box next to her. “Why come to me?” She begins to brush the black gelding.

A heavy beat passes before Snow answers, “Rumplestiltskin took our daughter.”

The brush pauses on the horse’s flank.

“How long ago?” Regina asks quietly, then resumes brushing the horse.

“Yesterday,” Killian answers. “We won’t be able to get near him without you.”

Regina snickers, “All those years hunting the Dark One and still can’t perform under pressure?”

“Oh darling, I perform under pressure just fine.”

Regina turns an acerbic eye on him. “Not when I asked you to kill my mother.”

“What?” David exclaims, looking between the two of them, but Killian rolls his eyes.

“Still on about that, are we?”

“This isn’t helpful,” Snow snaps. “He knows what can kill Rumplestiltsken,” she points a finger in Killian’s direction. “and you can get us into the vault where he keeps all of it.”

Regina looks mildly surprised at Snow’s outburst, but ultimately settles on impressed. “Why did he take her?”

“We don’t know,” David says.

“He said that he had use for her,” Killian says. “But that was all.”

Regina looks contemplative for a moment. “Product of true love could be useful,” she murmurs. She turns fully to Snow, seeming to warm to her topic, “When did Emma start manifesting magic?”

“Manifest—Emma doesn’t have magic.”

Regina snorts. “Believe me, she does. I could literally feel her magical signature exploding across the land when she was born.” She begins brushing the horse again, but it looks more like a reflexive movement than with any real purpose. “Either she’s a very late bloomer or there’s—” Regina freezes a moment, her lips parted. A furrow appears between her brows.

“There’s what?” Killian prompts.

Regina gives up on the futility of brushing the horse and drops the brush back in the box and steps fully into their conversation with her arms crossed over her chest. “A suppression hex.” Regina laughs, acidic. “Oh, classic Blue. Didn’t want to get her hands dirty herself.”

“Regina, what are you talking about?” Snow asks.

“After I gave up on casting the Dark Curse, but before I was banished,” Regina explains, “Blue came to me while I was imprisoned. I was—” she clears her throat before she continues, “—I was under the impression that I’d used up the last of your mercy, even if you believed me about stopping Rumplestiltskin’s plans. She asked me for a favor, and if I did it, she would counsel you to grant me clemency.”

“But Regina, you—” Snow tries, but Regina holds up a hand.

“It doesn’t matter. She asked me to create a suppression hex. Easy enough, so I did it. I just had no idea who she wanted it for. I’d always thought it was for an unruly fairy she wanted out of her ranks.”

“But she used it on Emma,” David concludes.

“So it would seem,” Regina says. “Maybe to hide her potential from Rumplestiltskin, or even from me. I doubt she ever really bought my change of heart,” she finishes with a scoff.

“Is he going to ask Emma to finish what you started, then?” Snow asks quietly.

Regina purses her lips. “Hard to say. Maybe he’s found a different avenue.”

“How do we get her back?” Killian asks impatiently. His mind has been conjuring worst case scenarios since Rumplestiltskin appeared in the clearing, and as salacious and shallowly entertaining as it might be to watch Regina snipe at the King and Queen, he’d much rather get on with finding Emma.

Regina examines him a little more closely this time, head tilting in a way that, unsettlingly, reminds him of the Crocodile. “You love her, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he answers plainly.

Regina seems to take it in as information, categorizing it in some list in her head before nodding. “We should take this to the house.”

* * *

When Emma awakens again, the hangover-like symptoms have mostly faded and left behind a strange feeling of sensitivity. Everything is too bright, too loud, too sharp. Like scratching a sunburn, it’s raw and a bit painful. She’d been in and out of consciousness since that first time she’d awoken, but she has no concept of how much time has passed.

At least she feels a little less scattered, the fog she’d felt hanging over her completely gone.

She’s still in the same chamber, but she’s alone this time. Her ability to stand has returned, but she takes it slow. Thankfully, no strange symptoms make a reappearance.

She looks down at her hands, and turns over Rumplestiltskin’s words in her head. He said that she has magic. 

There’s not—there’s no way. 

There’s absolutely no way he can be right, and yet—

“Deep down, you know I’m right.”

She whirls around, hand flying to where her sword would normally rest before cursing.

“No weapons for you, dearie. Not after last time.”

Now that she can properly focus on his face, Emma can’t find any evidence that she’d put out his left eye with her knife. “What, you looking for an apology?”

Rumplestiltskin’s answering smile is chilling. “Of course not. Apologies are fool’s sentiment. No, no, I usually prefer something more concrete.”

Emma grits her teeth. “Like what?”

He tuts lightly. “Not just yet. We need to wake you up first.”

Before she can ask what he means by that, he makes a few quick gestures with his hands, and she notices the red, filmy mist that she knows is his magic rising around him. With another quick gesture outwards, the magic explodes from him, whooshing around Emma like a sharp gust of wind off the sea, but ripping through every support column in the chamber.

Several of the ones closest to them immediately collapse, the sound like a dozen cannons going off at once. The rest are evenly cracked through at the base and begin to shake perilously, the entire structure around them trembling. Emma braces her knees through the shaking, and looks furiously at Rumplestiltskin. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Fix the columns, Emma,” he says.

“Are you fucking crazy?” she exclaims, eyes darting upwards. The shaking has increased, and visible fissures are appearing on the ceiling where the columns are starting to crumble away. “You’ll kill us both!”

He giggles. “Oh, it won’t kill me. Just you.”

“I don’t have magic! I can’t do this.” Rubble is starting to fall from the ceiling, massive chunks of stone plating crashing to the floor. Emma yelps and jumps to the side when a sizeable piece crashes to the floor not three feet from her.

“Oh, but you can!” he says. “This should be child’s play for how much power you have.”

“This is insane,” Emma says, quieter this time, frantically trying to find an exit. True to her first observation, there are no doors to this chamber. She’s stuck.

Fear burns in her throat,  _ I can’t die, not now, I can’t die, Killian is waiting for me, I can’t die now, we have plans, not now, not when everything is starting to fall into place— _

It happens between one heartbeat and the next—another column collapses, this time falling straight in her direction. She dives away from it, tucking and rolling to stand again. The column hits the floor right behind her, the concussion rattling her teeth and throwing her forward.

She falls.

She rolls, tries to get up as quickly as she can, but then there’s a stone from the ceiling falling straight at her.

No time to dodge. No time to run.

Either Rumplestiltskin is right, or she dies.

She thrusts her hands out in front of her, hoping for magic but all she can think of is how badly she wants to get out of here, of how badly she wants to see her parents again, see Killian again, by any and every god, she does not want to die today—

She closes her eyes.

She takes a breath, thinking that this could quite likely be her last.

And then she takes another.

And another.

She opens her eyes.

The stone hangs above her, suspended by a white mist that flows like liquid from her hands. She spares a look around her. Everything is frozen by the white mist, the columns held up, the falling debris stuck midair.

It’s unlike anything Emma has ever seen before, and it’s all coming from  _ her _ . She can feel it, a strange pull against her heart, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s more like the excitement she felt as a child on the morning of Yule, the anticipation she feels when she hasn’t seen Killian in a month, the physical reaction of joy and love made manifest.

Emma laughs, and with a snap of her fingers, everything is fixed. Like time flowing backwards, the damage is swiftly undone. The stone effortlessly knits back together, leaving no trace of the damage that was done to it. The plating from the ceiling that fell and shattered against the floor pushes back together and floats easily upwards, slotting back into the architecture.

When the last column is standing once more, Emma finally drops her hands.

“What did I tell you, dearie?” Rumplestiltskin says. “Child’s play.”

* * *

Snow isn’t sure what to expect when Regina says they’ll meet her husband at the house. She only has vague recollections of what Daniel looked like, and even less of an idea of what he’d been like as a person, so to say she doesn’t know what Regina’s romantic tastes are like is a severe understatement. She imagines that Regina’s partner would be a high-born person like herself, a bit prim and classist, maybe abrasively rude in that way rich, egotistical men can sometimes be.

To say that she is shocked to find that Regina’s husband is the one and only Robin Hood of Locksley would be an even more severe understatement than the first.

He is surprisingly warm and welcoming, the friendly dog to Regina’s aloof cat, and something in Snow feels settled, satisfied,  _ happy _ even. She’d always hoped Regina would find happiness, would find forgiveness and redemption in her own way, and it would seem that she’s found it; more than that, she’s also found someone to share it with who seems to be her perfect complement.

Robin invites them to sit, and offers to put a kettle on so that they can have some tea. While it warms, they all take a seat in the dining room.

It’s hardly the expensive setting Regina grew up with, but it’s certainly nicer than most homes in the village. Solid construction, a fine, tile floor covered in warm rugs, and furniture that runs more along the function line than the style.

They fill Regina in on the particulars of their plan--in as much as their plan has particulars--and Snow takes it as a positive sign that she doesn’t dismiss it outright. “As long as Hook knows what we need to grab, I should be able to get us in,” she says. “But there’s the possibility he’ll see us coming.”

“His visions have never been precise,” Hook points out, but Regina shakes her head.

“When it comes to his own death, I’ve found he has uncanny accuracy.”

“So we split up,” Hook suggests. “He knows I’m coming. If we can manipulate his visions so that he doesn’t know you three are coming with me, we’ll have the element of surprise.”

“Not to barge in,” Robin says, “but as someone with experience breaking into the Dark One’s palace, I may have a solution for you.”

“Experience breaking into his palace,” David repeats.

Robin nods. “I still have the glamour.” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small green clover. “When Regina told me what was going on, I figured this might come in handy.”

“Oh good, a plant. Emma is good as rescued,” Hook says.

Robin doesn’t seem annoyed by the sarcasm. “It’s a six leaf clover, mate. Not only capable of casting a powerful glamour spell, but hides one from magical sight, including--”

“From seers,” Hook realizes.

“It was how I managed to sneak in last time,” Robin explains. “Would’ve worked like a charm had I not been captured. But,” he pauses to wave a hand, “that’s neither here nor there. The magic is still good. It could hide all of us.”

“Us?” This comes from Regina, who is looking at her husband like he has two heads.

Robin just smiles at her. “For better or worse, my dear.”

“How did you escape?” asks Hook, who is leaning forward, gaze intense on Robin. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Admittedly, it was luck. I would have died painfully had it not been for Belle.”

“The heir to the Southern Reach, correct?” Hook asks.

“Yes,” Robin answers. “Both fortunately and unfortunately, she left him many years ago. I helped her get to DunBroch, and last I’d heard, she happily married the queen there.” 

Hook sighs deeply. “So she is no exit strategy.”

“No, she isn’t. She’s been out of his grasp for decades now, and I’m not eager to ask her to throw herself back in.”

“Not suggesting she does,” Hook replies. “We’ll just need to be careful with how we plan to get out.”

The kettle whistles from the kitchen, and Robin excuses himself to go fetch it.

“What about Emma?” Regina asks, standing; by some wordless agreement with her husband, she goes to the cabinet near the wall and removes several teacups, saucers, and collections of tea leaves. As she places them in front of her guests, she says, “If Rumple wants her for her magic, then she’s probably strong enough to hurt him.”

“She already did,” Hook says, and  _ that _ draws their attention.

“How?” David asks.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he says. Robin renters with the kettle and pours each of them a serving as Hook explains, “We were in a meadow, where you used to teach her to shoot,” he says to Snow, and she feels her breath catch.

Despite accepting Hook’s story as truth, the fact that her daughter loves him doesn’t feel real. It seems more like a story, a fiction recorded in pages for entertainment’s sake. But small things like that—that Emma showed him that field, an intensely personal and special place for their family—say that this is an undeniable reality. Something real that Emma kept perfectly secret all these years.

“Neither of us were armed. Why would we be, it was just—” Hook stares down at his tea, tipping the cup and watching the liquid move. “It was just supposed to be a nice day out. He appeared in the clearing and froze me as soon as I tried to charge at him, but Emma had a knife in her boot.”

“That’s my girl,” Snow says softly.

He looks up at her words, and his answering smile is wistful. “She’s a marvel.” It’s said with such softness, such tenderness, that Snow feels an ache rattle in her chest. It might not feel real in a lot of ways, but with each passing time she hears him speak, she starts to understand a bit more how Hook feels about Emma. She knows David doesn’t  _ quite _ approve, and she wouldn’t say that she does, yet, but she can’t say in moments like this that she disapproves either.

Hook continues, “Now, this is just a regular knife, right? But Emma threw it and put out his eye. He  _ bled _ . I’ve hunted the Dark One for nearly three hundred years and never have I seen him bleed. No legend or story or recounting has ever said anything about him bleeding either.”

“He’s vulnerable to her,” Regina concludes.

“He won’t tolerate having a weakness,” Killian says.

“No,” Regina agrees, “but he isn’t so short-sighted that he won’t try to make use of her before he kills her or traps her or permanently imprisons her or takes her heart or—”

“Enough, Regina,” David says. “We get it.”

“And she’s shown no signs of magic at all?”

“Not that I can remember,” Snow says.

“They might not be obvious,” Regina replies. “Maybe when she was a child, she leapt out of a tree and landed poorly, but came away unscathed. Perhaps she was exceptionally good at getting her way, past the point of reason. She likely wasn’t doing it on purpose, or with any sort of finesse.”

“She always had an affinity for injured animals,” Snow says, remembering. “There were no miraculous recoveries or regrown limbs or anything, but even the wild animals seemed calm around her and were willing to let her handle them while injured.”

Regina nods. “Could be a sign of strong light magic. Was there possibly a time when she accidentally set fire to anything? Not like that,” she says at the alarmed look that crosses Snow’s face, “but just a candle lit while she was particularly emotional? Happy or excited or perhaps angry?”

Hook shifts in his seat, a contemplative look crossing his face at that. “I think--” he starts, but he cuts himself off.

“What is it?” Regina prods.

“Nothing,” he says, and Snow can’t help but notice the tips of his ears going red.

Regina doesn’t look amused. “Save me the trouble of deducing and just tell me what you think you saw.”

Hook clears his throat, looking pointedly anywhere but at the current company at the table. “I might have—uh—noticed a lamp lit that I thought I’d put out. After an—” he reaches up to scratch behind his ear, the blush spreading from his ears down his neck and to his cheeks, “intimate moment.”

David makes a choked noise beside her, and Snow elbows him. “Not now, Charming,” she whispers.

Regina blessedly doesn’t press or make any quips. “Strong light magic,” she repeats.

“What does that mean for Emma?” Snow asks, happy to move on from dwelling on her daughter’s sex life.

“It’s the safest kind of magic--drawn from positive emotions, has never caused any recorded emotional spirals, with no known physical detriments. Acts of True Love are made from it. Not much is known about it because of its rarity, but from what I do know,” Regina looks directly at Snow, assurance in her posture and tone, “Emma isn’t like me.”

Snow lets out a breath. It’s a startling statement of personal clarity from Regina—something that Snow never knew her former step-mother would be able to have. To know the damage her own actions caused, to be able to tacitly admit that those actions weren’t something to aspire to, were something to be  _ feared,  _ even… it’s more than Snow ever expected or hoped for.

“So what can Rumplestiltskin do with her power?”

Here, Regina’s expression sours. “If she’s as strong as I think she is?  _ Anything _ .”

* * *

“Focus, dearie. Make the mirror show you what you want it to.”

The image wobbles for a moment, and Emma feels like she might snap her jaw with how hard she’d clenching her teeth to just get the goddamn mirror to cooperate. A second later, the image solidifies, showing the Emerald City of Oz. Once she finds it, she lets out a breath and relaxes a bit, the magic holding.

“Impressive,” Rumplestiltskin says. “You are a quick study. Quicker than any I’ve ever taught.”

“Still doesn’t tell me what you brought me here for.”

His answer is acidic, “I promised I wouldn’t kill the pirate; that was the extent of our deal. I am perfectly happy to remedy that if you’re keen to continue prying.”

Emma suppresses a growl. “Fine, but you’re going to have to tell me eventually.”

“And why is that?”

“A lot of this magic is about visualizing, right?” she waves a hand at the magic mirror, still displaying the Emerald City. “I wouldn’t have been able to conjure that if I didn’t know what I was trying to conjure. So whatever it is you clearly want me to do, I’m not going to be able to do it unless you tell me.”

He stares at her silently for a beat, and Emma knows she’s right, but she really, really hopes she hasn’t offended him. She’s heard horrific stories of what the Dark One has done to his enemies, and she doesn’t care to find out if those were true.

Instead of replying to her, he turns, grabs a book off the table behind him, and slaps it down next to her.

This book looks strange--the binding foreign, the printing unlike anything she’s seen in the Enchanted Forest, the paper perfectly white and evenly toned. There’s an illustration in the book, unbelievably detailed and inked across a whole page. “This is--” she says, running her fingers across it, “This is incredible.”

“It’s from another realm,” Rumple says dismissively. He nods at the mirror across from her. “Conjure an image of it.”

The illustration is of a structure unlike anything she’s seen before. It’s like a massive spire, flared at the base and climbing impossible heights into the sky. It’s not stone or brick, but crafted of what looks like crossing iron bars.

Underneath the image is a caption.  _ Tour Eiffel, 1890. _

“What realm is this from?” she can’t help but ask.

“The Land Without Magic.”

Emma raises a brow. They built this thing without magic? Interesting. “If there’s no magic there, how can I use magic to see into it?”

“Child’s play,” he says again, like a reminder.

Emma rolls her eyes. Right, because she’s apparently so powerful. Emma was never the greatest at her studies, but at least her tutors were more specific than  _ this _ .

She focuses her attention on the mirror again. Despite the lackluster instruction, it seems easier this time than it had the first few. Reaching for images from other realms is still a bit dicey, the one from Oz being the hardest so far, and she feels a similar stretch in trying to see this spire, this Tour Eiffel. In her mind, she focuses on the illustration, wonders what would be around it, imagines the people that might walk past it.

This image doesn’t even flicker. It just springs to life on the mirror after a few moments of concentration.

It looks taller than it did in the illustration, she notes, but then she catches a look of Rumple out of the corner of her eye. He looks absolutely astonished, and she realizes he wasn’t expecting her to get it.

She feels a bit of savage satisfaction at that. Serves him right for underestimating her.

His astonished look doesn’t last long, as he stands at attention like an army commander and gestures for her to follow him.

“Come now, Emma,” he says. “I have a task for you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is going to be 4 parts instead of 3, otherwise part 3 would've been like 18k, and I just can't with that length disparity XD.
> 
> I have no self-control. Enjoy?

It’s another day until they reach the lands around the Dark One’s castle. There is a slight chill in the air, being in the mountainous region of the Enchanted Forest as they are, but no snow has yet fallen. Despite the cold, the sun shines brightly upon the home of Rumplestiltskin. 

The old pile looks surprisingly unkempt. The massive walls, interrupted by large towers along its length, are overgrown with vines. The once immaculate front courtyard has become overgrown—bushes creeping out of the pattern in which they’d been planted, gardens escaping their raised beds and cracking through the brick containing them, and once-neat pathways made mountainous by growing roots from nearby trees. The state of the front of the manor is no better, lichens and mosses crawling across the surfaces. Many windows are shuttered, giving the place a different flavor of foreboding than it had before. Killian hasn’t seen it in many years, and to his left, he hears Regina’s breath catch.

He looks over at her and finds her eyes wide and her lips pressed together. He wonders how often she was at this castle when the Crocodile had been grooming her to cast the Dark Curse. He can’t imagine the memories she has of this place are particularly pleasant.

Regina catches his probing look out of the corner of her eye and quickly schools her features back to neutrality.

“Looks like the glamour has worked so far,” Killian notes—unless there’s some magical trap waiting to be sprung within if Rumplestiltskin saw them coming.

“Better to not linger any longer than we have to. We’ll see you both at the rendezvous point, yes?” Robin asks from next to Regina.

Regina nods. “Yes.” She reaches across the gap between their horses and takes her husband’s hand. “Please be careful.”

He winks at her. “Darling, you’ve always liked when I’m a little dangerous.” He leans down and kisses her knuckles, his expression shifting from cheeky to solemn. “You know I will be. You be careful, too.”

Robin jerks his head to the west side of the castle, where he says himself, Snow, and David will be able to sneak past the wall and through a window.

During their initial planning, they hadn’t wanted to split up. That always seems to be the first step in a bad plan poorly executed. However, once Regina explained that she’d only be able to get one other person into Rumplestiltskin’s vault with the protections he’d placed on it, and they realized their lack of knowledge on why he took Emma needed to be remedied, splitting their group in two became a necessity.

Regina and Killian would go to the vault and find what will be needed to either trap or kill the Dark One, while Robin, Snow, and David would sneak in and quietly search to see if they could find any hints on why the Dark One needed Emma. ‘Rendezvous point’ is a generous description on Robin’s part, because Regina can apparently find him via teleporting with unerring accuracy, so once they have the weapons they need from the vault, Regina will simply bring them all back together, and they will find Emma. Getting out is going to be more of an off-the-cuff operation, as Regina assured them once you get into the Dark One’s castle, there is no easy way out. They all pray that they’ll be able to rely on Emma’s ability to hurt the imp if it comes to that.

Just before they ride off, Snow turns in her saddle and says to Killian, “Be safe.”

He isn’t as caught off-guard this time by her show of care, and replies, “And you.”

“Your son-in-law is in good hands,” Regina quips, smirking.

“He’s not our—” David tries, but Snow just rolls her eyes and interrupts him.

“She knows, Charming.” A heavy look passes between the current and former queen, something like understanding and determination. They nod at each other, and Snow turns her horse towards the western wall of the castle. “We should go.”

Emma’s parents and Regina’s husband kick their horses to a quicker pace, and quickly disappear from their sight.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this, Majesty?” Killian asks. “This seems a bit like asking the addict to accompany me into the opium den, so to speak.”

Regina laughs at that, her expression free. “I haven’t needed magic in a long time, and I certainly won’t need it after today.” They both dismount. “I should be asking if _ you’re _ ready. Ever been teleported before?”

“Not as such, no.” 

He watches as Regina closes her eyes and stretches out her hands, translucent red ribbons of magic flowing around her fingers. Before too long, her eyes open. “Found it. Now I just need to—” With her lips pursed in concentration, Regina’s eyes slip closed once more. “Grab my arm.”

“What?”

“My arm. Grab it, and don’t let go.” Her voice has just the barest hint of strain in it, so Killian doesn’t question her further and does as she said.

Between one breath and the next, a magical vortex rises around them like smoke, obscuring their view of the castle and the forest beyond. The sensation of a hand grasping his stomach and pulling backwards throws Killian off balance, but in the next moment, the magical smoke dissipates. It leaves him feeling a bit light-headed and out-of-sorts, but he’s felt worse after a night of heavy drinking, so he’s well accustomed to functioning while ill.

The next breath Killian takes feels like the damp air of an underground dungeon—it certainly looks like one, but stuffed to the brim with magical objects.

True to his knowledge, the place has no doors or windows. It feels eerie in a way that suggests no other human beings have likely ever set foot in this space. Magical items are stacked with no discernable organization. Several shelves and cabinets play shepherds in the chaos, each housing more objects than it looks like they can safely carry. There are swords and urns, boxes and books, wands and stones; every manner of thing conceivable seems to have found a place in the Dark One’s vault.

Regina lets out a breath, one of her hands going to her forehead. “That’s going to be a hell of a hangover,” she says.

“Thank you,” Killian says impulsively.

Regina’s brow furrows as she looks at him. “Why?”

“For helping,” he explains. “I don’t know exactly what happened between you and Emma’s parents, but I’m grateful that you are willing to let the past stay in the past.”

She chuckles, a bit darkly. “I owe more to Snow than I’d ever care to admit to her face.” She turns away from him and runs a finger along a wand sitting on a nearby shelf, but she doesn’t pick it up. “I’m lucky she’s not the type to hold a grudge.”

Regina turns, a mask of professionalism firmly in place. “So what is it that we’re looking for, exactly?”

Killian runs his eyes over their immediate surroundings. “There should be a few things here that we can use to trap him. Killing him is a dicier game, but—” He cuts himself off when he sees a sword with a distinctive pommel and grip leaning against a large wardrobe, and then laughs. “I can’t believe it.”

“What is it?” Regina asks as Killian steps over to the sword, sheathed and upon closer inspection, he realizes he was right—it’s unmistakable.

“Dáinsleif, he says, picking it up. “Wielded by King Högni in the Neverending Battle. This blade causes wounds that never heal.” He slides the sword partially out of the sheath, revealing a set of glowing runes forged into the flat of the blade. “All blows delivered by this sword are fatal.” He looks back up at Regina and re-sheathes the sword. “This will be useful.”

Their search is surprisingly fruitful and efficient as the pair try to pick through the mess as quickly as they can—neither of them are willing to leave the other half of their group alone for long.

They eventually find themselves with four items of use—Dáinsleif; a few small vials of squid ink that can immobilize even the strongest of magic users; Pandora’s Box, the infamous magical prison that Killian is surprised Rumplestiltskin didn’t destroy; and finally, the Urn of Arendelle, another magical trap that can easily ensnare a magic user of even Rumplestiltskin’s caliber.

“We’re ready,” Killian says.

“But we need one more,” Regina says. “If all of us are going to have a weapon, we need one more.”

“Oh, I already have mine,” Killian says, and reaches into the pocket of his coat. He withdraws a vial that feels cold to the touch, despite being warmed by his body heat for the last day. The liquid within doesn’t look unlike the squid ink they’d picked up, but it’s more viscous, thick like molasses. “Dreamshade. The deadliest poison from Neverland. I doubt even a Dark One could withstand a shot of this to the heart.”

Regina quirks a brow. “I know better than to question the deadliness of something that comes out of Neverland.” She looks upwards. “We’ve left them to their own devices long enough. Let’s get—”

She never finishes her sentence because at that moment it sounds like an explosion goes off somewhere above them, violently shaking the walls of the vault around them. The blast lasts less than a few seconds, but it’s enough to thoroughly scare the both of them.

Regina looks over at him, wide-eyed, but determined. “We need to go.”

With a sharp breath of concentration and Killian’s hand wrapped around her arm, smoke envelopes them once more and they’re gone.

* * *

Sneaking through a window makes Snow feel an awful lot like the bandit she used to be, though the way her hips and back feel after she gracelessly tumbles through it remind her that she is no longer as spry as she once was.

David and Robin follow not long after her, both giving similar groans of pained effort as they stand.

“God, when did we get old?” David asks when he reaches his feet again, adjusting his sword at his side.

“Well, our child is closer to thirty than twenty,” Snow points out as she too checks that her bow and quiver weren’t harmed in her clumsy entrance.

“And apparently fell in love with a pirate,” Robin chimes in.

Snow shoots him a look. “Is now really the time?”

“Hey, I’m married to the former Evil Queen. I have no room to judge. I’m simply weak for a bit of intrigue and a good story is all.”

“Well, when we get the full story ourselves we’ll be sure to fill you in,” David answers.

The hall they’d tumbled into is deserted and quiet, the kind of quiet that lets you hear the beat of your own heart and the rush of your blood. They entered at the corner of the manor—the layout of the castle above ground is relatively straightforward—so they’re at an L-shaped intersection, and Robin nods to the right. “The room I believe we’re looking for is this way.”

They make their way along the hall with soft steps and bated breath, each of them listening carefully for even a hint that something might be going wrong, but the silence prevails, and they eventually reach the room Robin had been referring to. 

“This is his study—wait!” he exclaims when Snow goes for the door handle, and she jumps backwards. Robin removes his bow from where it was slung across his back, nocks an arrow as quick as Snow has ever seen from someone else, and fires at the door.

Snow jumps back even further when fire peels over the entryway, a wall of flame burning across it that surely would’ve consumed her with how close she’d been. It burns steadily for a few moments, the heat of it blistering against Snow’s face, before it dissipates.

“Should be safe now,” Robin says after a moment, seemingly unconcerned by the trap.

“How did you—” Snow starts, but finds herself unable to finish the question. By the gods, if Robin hadn’t been there, she would’ve died just then. That protection spell would’ve killed her, and she wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.

Robin answers, “I may have trifled with the Dark One on more than a single occasion. Are you alright?”

David’s hand finds hers then, his eyes searching her face. His steady presence pulls her back to the present, and she refocuses. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

His answering smile is kind, “You are most welcome.” He gestures at the door. “After you.”

Snow reaches for the door handle a bit more cautiously but finds the brass knob cool to the touch, despite the fire that had consumed it moments ago. She turns it and pushes it open, finding a circular library within.

The room itself is not large, perhaps twenty or twenty-five feet across. Tall bookshelves climb up to the ceiling, two storeys high, but there is no ladder to climb to the highest shelves. The floor is wooden, the paneling done like a sun radiating outwards. A single arched window that reaches as high as the bookshelves is the only light source. The wide blade of light it allows through falls upon a spinning wheel with a small pile of straw sitting next to it, as well as a wide table filled with books and potion bottles.

“Belle told me this was his preferred space to work,” Robin says, lingering by the door as she and Charming take in the room with measured steps. “If he’s recorded anything for why he needs Emma, it will be here.” He nods at the table. “Start looking, and I’ll keep watch,” he says, and moves to nock an arrow and stand with his shoulder against the doorframe.

Snow and David move to the table, starting on opposite ends and peeling through the papers and books gathered there.

“_A History of Light Magic_,” David reads absently from the materials in front of him, “_Light Magic Application and Practice_. This one is in High Elvish, but I think it says _ Traveling with Magic in the Light_.”

“Sounds like he’s very interested in Emma’s light magical potential,” Robin observes. “Perhaps he’s found another way to achieve his ends without the Dark Curse? Something that requires light magic?”

On Snow’s end, she’s having a more difficult time discerning what is in front of her. Sheafs of notes that don’t seem to be organized are strewn about and covered in horrific script handwriting.

“Has Regina ever told you anything else about what she found out about why he wanted her to cast the Dark Curse?” Snow asks Robin, because if he wants Emma to finish what Regina started, what Regina knows could be invaluable.

Robin hums thoughtfully. “Only that he seemed to desperately want to get to the Land Without Magic. She noticed he was interested in adding a time travel component to the curse, but couldn’t sort out the particulars.”

David scoffs. “Time travel?”

Robin shrugs. “I know how it sounds.”

Snow scans over the most recent page of notes she’s piled up, but something trips in her mind. “I think Hook said he had a son.”

“Hook has a son?” This from David, in a tone at least four octaves above his normal voice.

Snow rolls her eyes at her husband. “No, he said that Rumplestiltskin had a son, a long time ago.” She leans onto the table, sorting through the jagged pieces of this story in her mind. “Maybe that’s what all of this has been about. Maybe his son was lost in the Land Without Magic a long time ago, and this is his way of finding him.”

David nods across the table. “While it’s hard for me to think of Rumplestiltskin as a parent, there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for your kids.”

Then it hits Snow the implications of this possible explanation she’s put together—it would mean that Rumplestiltskin has been trying to find a way to the Land Without Magic for _ hundreds _ of years. Gods, he could’ve been pulling the strings of her and Regina’s relationship without them knowing for their whole lives. How deep did his machinations run? And what about her and David? The number of times he’d helped them—

She shakes those thoughts off. She can consider the ramifications later, once Emma is safe and out of harm’s way.

Snow picks up the next page of notes, this one surprisingly legible.

_ WELL OF URD—no tt recorded, req light magic. +savior magic tt? In theory, tt possible w mechanics, need raw power _

“‘Requires light magic,’” Snow discerns, and exhales heavily as she reads on. “This looks like he might be talking about Emma.”

There are no mentions of her daughter by her given name, but there are several places where he refers to _ the Swan _in his notes. That’s been Emma’s nickname from the public ever since her coming out ball when she was sixteen. She’d stabbed the hand of an older duke with a steak knife who’d been getting much too familiar with the young princess, and the name stuck.

_ Fits w swan prophecy, POWERFUL, _ Rumplestiltskin had written in between magical gibberish she couldn’t understand.

“Swan prophecy?” Snow mutters and reads on, hoping for clarity.

Instead, she feels her stomach drop out when she reads down to the bottom, where the letters are all caps, written over themselves several times to make them bolded, and underlined with several harsh lines.

_ HIGH PRICE—CYCLICAL CURSE ON USER NOT TRAVELER _

“David, look at this,” Snow says, trepidation evident in her voice.

Her finger lingers on the requisite part of the note page when David comes over, and he reads where she’s indicated. His expression shifts from curiosity to tight-lipped fear.

“What is it?” Robin asks from the door.

“It looks like Rumplestiltskin may have found a way to open a portal with light magic,” David says. “And if he’s right, Emma is going to pay a high price. A cyclical curse. What is that?”

“And what is this Well of Urd?” Snow asks.

“Can’t say I know what either of those things are. Regina or Hook might, though. We’ll ask them wh—”

Before Robin can finish, the sound of an explosion rocks the castle. The window rattles in its frame, somehow not cracking with the violent vibration of the walls. Several books fall from their shelves, slapping against the wood floor. One level of a shelf gives way, and its whole collection falls to the floor in a cacophonous crash. The three room occupants are forced to grab onto something to keep their feet.

The shock doesn’t last long, a few seconds, but its effect is anything but minor. Snow meets David’s gaze, and they both seem to read each other’s thoughts in that moment.

“Emma,” they both say at the same time.

Robin seems to agree with their assessment. “Hopefully Regina and Hook have what they need, because it seems things are progressing at a precipitous rate.”

As if summoned, a whirl of magical smoke appears in the middle of the room, and Regina and Hook appear when it dissolves.

They must look panicked, because Regina asks flatly, “So I’m guessing you all felt that too?”

“We need to go,” Snow says. Who knows what Rumplestiltskin has done to Emma, and after that minor earthquake, she’s absolutely determined to get her daughter out of his grasp as soon as possible.

“Hold on,” Hook says, and both he and Regina distribute the weapons they’ve found. Snow ends up with two vials of squid ink, Robin with the Urn of Arendelle, David with the Dáinsleif sword, Regina with Pandora’s Box, and Hook with his own sword, treated with some sort of poison he seems confident could kill a Dark One.

Once they’re all outfitted and ready, Robin says to his wife, “Do you know—actually, just read this.” He snags the relevant note page and hands it to her.

Regina’s brow furrows, her eyes flitting quickly over the page. “Savior magic?” she mutters quietly, but quickly continues, “Urd is a well in Asgard, I believe. The water flows through every realm, like a unifying thread. It’s incredibly old and incredibly powerful. As far as I know, no one has been able to even touch it because everyone who’s tried gets literally blasted into oblivion.” Regina’s eyes widen at the implication of her words and she looks up at the group. 

_ Blasted into oblivion. _

Snow says, “We need to find them before it’s too late.” Regina can tell them the particulars of a cyclical curse later.

Regina nods toward the hall. “Let’s go.”

* * *

The room that Rumplestiltskin takes Emma to is a grand hall, and it reminds her more of the throne room at the palace than anything else. Massive arched windows stretch from floor to ceiling, and between those, standing silent watch with their backs against the stone walls, are a dozen golden suits of armor. At the very end of the room, at the foot of the long, rich, red velvet runner under their feet is a table holding what looks like a glass wine bottle with a clear liquid inside.

Emma views the innocuous item with unease. Since he awoke her magic, he hasn’t done anything else insane in trying to teach her, but she knows better than to trust the Dark One.

They come to a halt in front of the table. “Do you know why you’re called the Swan of Misthaven?” Rumplestiltskin asks, breaking the silence that had descended.

Emma scoffs. “Because of my ‘rare beauty and fiery temper when incensed,’ or so I’ve been told.”

“That’s what you might think, dearie, but the story is far, far deeper than that.” He carefully pinches the bottle by the neck and lifts it. “This is water from the Well of Urd.”

“Uh huh,” Emma says slowly. “So what do you want me to do with it?”

“The impatience.” He tsks at her. “The act means nothing without the story.”

Emma holds back the sharp retort on her tongue, and instead says, “Fine. Tell me.”

“There is an ancient well in Asgard, one whose water flows throughout every realm.” As he speaks, he uncorks the bottle and upends it slightly. He walks around her, creating a circle of spilled water about six feet across at Emma’s feet. She can’t help but notice that Rumplestiltskin does not step inside the circle he’s created. “With the right touch, one can use it to travel to these other realms.”

Emma eyes the water on the floor, an eyebrow raising skeptically, “And my touch is the right one?” If this water is magical in any way, it’s certainly not impressive to look at.

He grins that enigmatic smile of his that tells Emma he enjoys being the one who has all the answers. It’s really starting to grate on her.

“The swan who can drink of the Well of Urd will be born on the eve of a tragedy that will never come to pass,” he says, as though reciting something he’s read over thousands of times. “The swan will be born of the purest love, and will have stronger light magic than the world has ever seen. The swan shall be of Misthaven, and will have the power to ruin, or to build. The Destroyer, or the Savior.”

“And that’s… me?”

“Only one way to find out, dearie,” he says, and holds out the bottle for her to take.

Emma stares at him. “I have a thing about taking drinks from strange men.” Quips aside, Emma’s hackles are up, every instinct telling her to not touch this, not go near it, to run the other way and not stop until she falls into the Western Sea.

The Dark One barks out a laugh, louder and somehow more disturbing than his normal giggles. “You forget our deal, Emma,” he says after his guffaws have quieted. “You help me, or the pirate dies.” He shrugs, nonchalant. “It’s your choice.”

Emma’s jaw clenches against a scream. “Fine,” she grits out. She reaches out and grasps the neck of the bottle despite the pit forming in her stomach, despite everything in her screaming _ no no no no no_.

She looks at the remaining water, just a few small swallows. The pit in her stomach hasn’t abated, and now her heart is beginning to race.

“Bottoms up,” Rumplestiltskin says, almost _ playful _, and in that moment, she can imagine herself killing him. Imagines setting him on fire, or pulling his heart out like she’s heard in the legends about the Evil Queen, imagines taking a greatsword and beheading him, imagines—

She jolts out of her startling reverie. She’s not normally a violent person, certainly not one who makes a habit of fantasizing about garishly killing someone. In the back of her mind, she thinks of all the cautionary tales she’s heard about magic in her lifetime—from her mother and father, from Blue and the rest of the fairies, from the people who remember all too well the cruelty of a queen drunk on her own power. She wonders if they were true.

“Anytime now, dearie.”

She shoots Rumplestiltskin a withering stare. He simply smiles.

Emma breathes in, tips the bottle up to her lips, and drinks. The water is cool and tastes a bit metallic, like the mineral water at the hot springs in the Southern Reach.

When it’s gone, she takes a step to the side and slams the bottle onto the table, the frame rattling from the force of it, but the bottle remains whole.

Despite the creeping dread she’d had, she feels surprisingly normal. A few seconds pass. She glances awkwardly around the room. Does this mean she passes or fails?

“So what’s supposed to happen here? Am I—”

Then she feels it, and she screams.

“I should have mentioned,” Rumplestiltskin says, “this part will be rather painful.”

She feels _ hot _, like she is boiling, like her body is about to melt through the floor, and she opens her eyes and sees that she is literally radiating light.

Her body shines unlike anything she has ever seen before, the magic and power rippling over her like a tumultuous ocean. How is she even alive with this much power coursing through her? How hasn’t her skin separated from her body, how hasn’t every molecule of her existence been blown up and scattered?

There is a sun inside of her, burning from the inside out, and it’s going to get out. There is no way she can hold on, not with this. There’s a crushing pressure under her skin, pushing, expanding, demanding an exit that she cannot give it.

Emma can hear _ everything _, the movement of the realms, the voices of the inhabitants, more voices than she can even comprehend, all blending together in a deafening roar.

Scorching heat slices through her bones, burning burning burning, and she doesn’t think she can do this, she made it this far only to die from a few mouthfuls of water, it’s not possible for someone to live with this much power, this much pain, this much _ burning _. If this is what magic really feels like, if this is what power feels like, she doesn’t want it.

She barely hears Rumplestiltskin over the roaring in her ears. “Don’t let it control you, Emma,” he says. “You have the power. This little display is nothing compared to you.”

She looks up at him, her field of vision rimmed in light, and he stares back.

The sun is going to get out.

So Emma lets it, and the world around her goes white.

* * *

They burst through the double doors Regina indicated, and find chaos. The large windows along the walls are all blown out, and the ceiling is missing in portions, letting in the light of midday. Decorative suits of armor in gilded gold lay strewn about in pieces. It seems like there was once a rug on the floor, but it only exists now in burned scraps. The air feels charged, like a lightning storm is just over the horizon.

At the end of the great hall, the Dark One lay crumpled against a wall, but Killian can hardly focus on that, because at the center of the destruction, laying on her back and glowing faintly, is the love of his life.

“Emma,” he breathes, and Killian _ runs _.

He hears the rest of the group following behind him, and he continues heedless, stepping around the ruined suits of armor and soon reaches where she lay.

There is a faintly glowing circle around her that matches the hue her skin is giving off, but Killian steps over it and drops to his knees to lift Emma into his arms. She’s limp, but her body is hot to the touch, almost too hot to hold, but he manages. Her chest moves shallowly, and he can see her pulse firing in her neck. He doesn’t know what the Dark One has done to her, but it’s bad, whatever it is, and they need to get her out of here.

Her parents have come to kneel next to him, their helpless and scared expressions surely mirroring what’s on his face.

“Emma,” he says softly, his hand cupping the back of her head to bring her face up. “Come on, love, open your eyes.”

He turns to look at Regina, ask her what’s happened to Emma, but as he turns, he sees that the Dark One has risen from where he was thrown against the wall.

He looks rattled, an uncommon sight on the normally unreadable imp. When he realizes he has company, he readjusts his countenance into a sneer.

“Clever glamour,” he says. “A fancy bit of magic, that. Do I smell a six-leaf clover somewhere?” He snaps his fingers, and though Killian isn’t magical, he feels a faint sensation of the glamour being peeled away.

Rumplestiltskin’s face twists into a snarl when their true forms are revealed. Both of his hands go out in front of him, magic sparking across them, and Killian braces himself, preparing to be choked or flung somewhere or any other manner of magical violence, but is shocked when nothing happens. The magic sputters uselessly in the imp’s hands.

Rumplestiltskin appears quite startled as well.

Regina laughs.

The Dark One’s irate stare falls upon her. “Regina,” he says, taunting despite his own recent magical failure, “did you come back to prove that you’re worth something after all?”

Regina steps out between Rumplestiltskin and them. She has Pandora’s Box in one hand and a ball of flame in the other. “I have nothing to prove to you.”

Rumplestiltskin’s eyes dart towards the door.

Regina laughs again. “Thinking of making an escape? Save yourself the trouble. She’s weakened you too much.” she says. “You finally flew too close to the sun on this one, Rumple. She’s too strong for you to control, isn’t she?”

The Dark One smiles, and pushes a hand towards the doors. “Oh, Regina, have you forgotten?” He snaps his fingers and looks back at them. A spark of red magic shoots out across the room, not so useless now, and Killian realizes he wasn’t looking at the doors. He was looking at the suits of armor.

His grin is predatory. “There’s no such thing as someone I can’t control as long as they love something.”

The magic sinks into the golden soldiers, reuniting the scattered bits of armor and bringing the small army to life. They rise with the sharp sounds of metal on metal, drawing swords that glow with runes as they begin to lurch across the room towards them.

David and Snow are on their feet in a heartbeat, forming a loose arc with Robin around Emma with weapons drawn.

Emma stirs in his arms, a small sound slipping from her mouth. “Emma?” he tries again.

Regina hazards a glance backwards at Killian, keeping herself between them and Rumplestiltskin, and says, “You need to help them. There are too many for three of them to take. I can handle him,” she finishes, gesturing sharply at the Dark One.

“Oh, dearie, I might be weakened, but don’t mistake that for _ weak _.”

Then, Killian feels magic force his arms from around Emma, and he and Regina are both hurled away from Emma and towards the advancing automatons. 

Killian quickly rolls to his feet and regains his bearings, drawing his sword just in time to block a harsh slash from one of the suits. The blow rattles his teeth, as heavy a hit as if it had been delivered by any of the strongest swordsmen he’s ever faced. He quickly parries, happy to see that while strong, the automatons seem to be slow moving, and his sword finds the joint at the neck of the armor and rends the helmet from the rest of the body. The body of armor takes another quivering step forward, then falls.

And just like that, their fight begins. Snow, David, and Robin join the fray; Snow and Robin stick to the flanks, their specialties being ranged weaponry, while David, rather impressively, dual wields his own sword along with Dáinsleif and falls in next to Killian and Regina.

Moments after Killian downed his first opponent, he sees Regina out of the corner of his eye blasting a suit of armor against the wall, rending the joints apart and veritably exploding the suit.

Their respective quarries stay down for a few relief-laden moments before the pieces begin to rattle, and then snap back together like iron to a magnet.

“Oh, you are kidding me,” Regina groans.

“How the hell are we supposed to kill something unkillable?” shouts Robin from across the room.

Killian doesn’t know the answer to that as he lops another head off an automaton.

Despite their lumbering slowness, the suits do an admirable job of cutting them off from where Emma lay, almost herding them backwards towards the doors to the hall.

“Don’t suppose the magic sword applies to gold suits of armor brought to life?” Emma’s father says as he cuts an arm from one of the suits with the enchanted blade. The glowing runes on the side of Dáinsleif indicate that the magic is working, but alas—the arm reattaches, the automaton continuing it’s slow, heavy offensive. 

“I’m guessing ‘having flesh’ is a prerequisite,” Killian replies.

Closer to them now, Killian is able to tell that the glowing runes on the suits weaponry is strikingly similar to those on Dáinsleif. If it’s a matching enchantment—well. That’s a worst case scenario he doesn’t wish to contemplate as she dodges another slow swing and parries another coming at his other side.

“Don’t let them cut you!” Killian calls out over the din of battle. “Their weapons are enchanted.”

“Regina!” shouts Robin, “what’s our play here?” He and Snow have the biggest disadvantage with their bows—without a means to decapitate the armor, it appears there’s no slowing them down.

“Give me a second!” she replies, hurling a fireball through the chestplate of one of the automatons. It shudders to a stop, the melted metal running to the floor in rivulets. It lumbers back to life after a few moments, but it’s slower, more ungainly than before.

“Got any fire arrows?” she calls over.

“We can make do!” Snow replies.

In a hail of fire and swords, they fight. It’s exhausting and they’re playing a defensive game—they have to get lucky on every dodge, whereas the automatons need only get lucky once.

Killian steals a glance back to where they’d been forced away from Emma, and finds her already staring at him.

* * *

Her manner of waking is sudden. A gasping breath, a jolt through her body, and her eyes snap open to find Rumplestiltskin standing over her. Distantly, she realizes she’s still glowing, the power still coursing through her, but more like a great river flowing through a dam than an uncontained ocean in a storm.

“On your feet, Swan of Misthaven,” he hisses, and she scrambles to her feet to meet him.

Still standing just outside the circle of water he’d poured, glowing just like her skin, his unbearably cheerful expression makes another wave of anger course through her.

Then she hears her mother’s voice, a shout of _ we can make do _, and she turns to find a battle happening before her eyes. The room is utterly destroyed, the rug singed beyond recognition, the windows on all the walls blown out, and sunlight leaking through cracks in the ceiling. The decorative armor that had lined the walls has come to life, fighting with—

Mom. Dad. Killian. Two others she does not recognize.

Emma meets Killian’s gaze across the metallic sea.

She realizes they’re here for her. They came for her.

Fear swiftly replaces her anger. “Let them go,” she demands, turning back to Rumplestiltskin, who watches the action and her with an idle curiosity. “If all you need me to do is send you to a different realm, just leave them alone, and—”

Quicker than a blink, Rumplestiltskin is in front of her, reaching across the glowing ring and dragging her towards him with his hand around her neck. “We have a deal,” he snarls, and in that moment he looks unhinged. She’s always known he’s at least a little bit nuts, but it’s this moment, this handful of seconds where he constricts her air flow with his own hand, that she truly sees the man Killian spent centuries trying to kill. “You open this portal for me,” he says through gritted teeth, “and the pirate lives.” He cackles a bit. “Since your parents decided to join the fray, well, I can’t guarantee their safety unless you stop dallying and do as you promised!”

“You don’t have to threaten them—” Emma chokes out, “I’ll do it if you—”

“That’s not our deal!” he yells, his fist shaking around her throat. The fear clenches harder around her heart. Feet away from her, her family is in mortal peril and she can’t do anything about it.

She hears her father cry, “Emma!”

Killian’s response is panicked. “Dave, no!”

In her periphery, she sees her father making a reckless charge for her. She sees Killian yelling, racing to push her father out of the way of an automaton’s sword.

Watches as the sword goes through Killian’s chest.

Time slows to a crawl.

Emma must say something, she feels something like words or breath or a scream coming through her throat, but the only thing she can hear is the sound of a high pitched whistle in her ears

He’s the reason she’s here. To save him.

It’s not fair, it’s—he’s the best swordsman she’s ever seen, he can’t just—

The automaton withdraws the sword. Her father recovers and knocks the golden armor back, beheading it decisively and dropping to his knees next to Killian.

She can already see the blood.

No.

_ No. _

The power she couldn’t hold onto before rises, right next to the power she was born with. She’s stronger than this. Rumplestiltskin’s told her that she has the power to rip open the veins between realms—if she can do that when he can’t, then she must be stronger than him. Strong enough to save her family.

She flicks Rumplestiltskin away from her like a flea. She doesn’t spare him a second glance as he’s flung away from her, the sound of his body colliding with the wall a wet, heavy thud.

She turns and reaches out for the automatons, feels the dark magic threading the armor together into cohesive units. It feels like the sinew of an animal, thick, greasy, heavy, but with a quick gesture, her light magic flows out, snipping the threads like cutting puppet strings.

The automatons fall, the small army clattering to the floor. She clenches a fist, compressing them all like crumpled balls of paper and hurling them to the opposite side of the hall for good measure. Like children’s toys. Like nothing at all. She hates him, but Rumplestiltskin was right. This _ is _ child’s play.

Then Emma rushes to where Killian bleeds on the floor, her father’s hands trying to vain to staunch the bleeding.

“Emma,” Killian gasps, smiling in spite of what must be tremendous pain. “You’re so beautiful.” He coughs, a bit of blood trailing from one corner of his mouth. “Glowing like a star,” he murmurs.

She wants to laugh, then she wants to cry, because she loves him so much. Her hands find each side of his face. “I’m going to make this better,” she tells him. She doesn’t know how.

“You already have,” he says softly, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks.

“Stay—” she panics when his eyes slip closed, “No, you stay with me. Killian!”

“Don’t reckon I can walk anywhere,” he murmurs.

“I can—” her heart races, bringing her hand up to where her father’s presses down over his wound. She looks up at her father, vision going blurry with tears. “I can fix this,” she says to him, but it comes out more of a question. She only learned she has magic today, she has no idea what she can and can’t do. Why couldn’t she heal something like this? If she’s so powerful, she should be able to fix this.

David looks lost for an answer for her, his mouth opening and closing several times before he presses his lips together.

The dark haired woman that Emma doesn’t recognize drops down next to her, reaching a hand out. Her eyes close in concentration before she swears softly. “You were right,” she says to Killian, then raises her gaze to David and Emma. “The swords they had must’ve been enchanted with the same magic as Dáinsleif. I can’t heal it.”

Killian coughs a wet laugh. “So that’s why he had it.”

“Not funny, idiot,” the woman scolds, but Emma is furious.

She might not know what sort of limitations there is on this power of hers, but she decides in that moment that she will not lose him today. She will not. She won’t entertain the idea of failure. If she’s powerful enough to open a portal to a land that doesn’t even have magic, if she’s powerful enough to hurt the Dark One, she better damn well be strong enough to heal a goddamn enchanted wound.

“You can’t,” Emma says, “but I can.”

“Emma, darling—” there was her mother, just behind her shoulder. Her voice is soft, sad, grieving before he’s even gone.

“No!” Emma snaps.

“Emma,” Killian says, his face going pale, “it’s okay. It’s enough to—” he wheezes, more blood dribbling from his lips, “—to see that you’re alright.”

His breathing is getting shallower.

“No,” she says, quiet, resolute, “it’s not enough for me.”

It’s now or never.

Emma moves her father’s hand out of the way, and pulls every bit of power she can conjure. She can feel the lattice of the enchantment—transferred from the sword to leave the wound gaping and bleeding. It feels stubborn, slippery, more like slick mercury than the dark sinew of the spell holding the automatons together.

Magic is about visualization, so Emma imagines him how she knows him—clever, wickedly funny, annoyingly charming, steadfast, stubborn, passionate, _ loving _. A good man beneath the rough exterior, a good man she fully intends to spend her future with if he’ll let her.

The feels the enchantment start to dissolve. She pushes harder. _ He is mine _ , she thinks. _ You can’t have him _. He is her lover, her best friend, her partner, the person she wants to wake up next to as much as she can.

She pours everything she can into the wound, all of her love and frustration and anger and compassion and raw need, and finally she feels the enchantment give way.

She feels the skin beneath her fingers begin to knit together.

Killian gasps, his eyes flying open, and Emma finally pulls away with a sharp inhale. She did it.

* * *

Regina knows that she is, on the whole, more of a cynic than an optimist, but what she’s watching Snow’s daughter do right now shouldn’t be _ possible _.

Perhaps it has something to do with the water from Urd, or maybe Rumplestiltskin had been right about Emma being a Savior. A legendary breaker of curses, a purveyor of the strongest light magic. In all her reading, Regina hadn’t heard of a Savior existing in the last millennia, but—

Hook’s wound is gone, the only remaining evidence there was anything wrong with him at all is the hole through his vest and jacket. His color has returned, the blood vanished, and the pirate wordlessly sits up and throws his arms around Emma. She does the same, burying her face in the side of his neck. His hand goes to the back of her head, and Regina doesn’t have to be perceptive to feel the desperate relief in the embrace.

“You did it, Emma,” he murmurs.

“I—” Emma pulls away slightly. “I did.” She sounds more surprised than Regina is, and the glow in her skin than had been faint when they first arrived has grown brighter and more intense. Concerning.

Regina feels a flutter of magic around them, dark and twisted, and realizes Rumplestiltskin has rejoined them in consciousness.

Gods, she should’ve just trapped him when he’d been passed out. Regina mentally kicks herself for caring enough about the stupid pirate enough to check on him instead of finishing what they came here to do, which was trap or kill the Dark One.

Before Regina can turn back to where they’d left Rumplestiltskin, Emma is on her feet and shouting, “No!” With a swift, unpolished move, Emma forces the dark magic back with staggering force that even Regina can feel the echoes of.

She watches as Emma stalks toward Rumplestiltskin, radiating power and magic with every step. Beyond the glow of magic around Emma, Regina catches a glimpse of Rumplestiltskin. She had known him better than just about anyone, once upon a time. Or at least, she likes to think that she did, that she had some measure of equality in their twisted relationship. But the expression on Rumplestiltskin’s face as Emma comes to a stop right in front of him is one that Regina has never seen before. Fear. Uncertainty. Regret. The reptilian eyes that once haunted her nightmares with cruel words and visions of what-if are wide, his hands, capable of cruelty in the highest degree, held out in front of him in an appeal for mercy. His magic sparks over his fingers, but he is helpless in the face of the pure light magic going supernova in front of him.

Many years ago, Regina would’ve bared her teeth, come up next to Emma and told her, _ Good. Make him regret the day he was born. _

Now, Regina just feels pity. This sad, sad little man whose very being is so toxic everyone he’s ever loved has left him. Destroyed his own life so catastrophically that the only recourse he has left is _ this _. 

“You broke our deal,” Emma says, her voice reverberating across the demolished hall.

“The deal hasn’t been broken yet, dearie,” Rumplestiltskin explains hastily. “The pirate lives—”

Without fanfare, Emma plunges her hand into the Dark One’s chest.

Snow’s gasp from behind her echoes her own.

She sees Hook moving out of the corner of her eye, and he makes his way to where Emma stands without an ounce of hesitation.

Robin comes up behind Regina and takes her hand in his. She looks over at him, and she must be wearing something of a panicked expression because his own countenance softens when he takes her in. “You can help her,” he says, soft and trusting, and she’s struck again by how much she loves him. What would have become of her life after her last banishment had she not found him? 

Would she have reneged on her promise to Snow to not cast the curse and bury it where it could never be found again? Would she have gone insane by herself, steeping in her regrets and loneliness? And yet, even after everything she did, she was still lucky enough to find Robin, this compassionate man who believes in her goodness in spite of who she was. A man compassionate enough to believe that the Evil Queen has the power to help, to heal, to do good for others.

“Go,” he says, and Regina can tell it’s not just to her—Snow and Charming stand just to her left in a stricken, wide-eyed stupor as their only daughter threatens to pull someone’s heart out of their chest. Regina can only imagine what’s going through their heads. After all, her liberal use of pulling out hearts must’ve left a sour aftertaste; to see their daughter following the same road Regina herself had tumbled down can’t be easy.

Emma might have light magic, but everyone born with magic has potential for darkness in them. Regina knows that first taste of dark power.

Rumplestiltskin pushed Regina into embracing her dark magic—she won’t let him to the same to Emma.

* * *

When Emma had been a child, she didn’t have many friends. Certainly, there were lords and ladies of the court who tried to wheedle their children into the palace and into Princess Emma’s affections, playing the long game of politics and gaining social capital. Emma hadn’t always been good at reading intentions, and after several tumultuous friendships gone awry, she’d learned to protect herself. Don’t let anyone in, and they never get the opportunity to hurt you.

However, loneliness had never suited Emma. As much as she liked to hide behind the Swan of Misthaven moniker, allow the lords and ladies who’d once jockeyed their children for position with her to comment snidely on her prickliness, she desired for friendship, for someone who wanted to know her because they found her interesting all on her own. So she’d begun to sneak out of the castle in the summer of her eighteenth year, dressed in simple clothing so as not to stand out, and found that she infinitely preferred the company of those who didn’t know her as the Princess and Heir Apparent of Misthaven.

In spite of all her secret-keeping, she fiercely loves her mother and father. Many of their senior staff have earned places in Emma’s mental tally of her family. Graham and the dwarves are like uncles, Ruby and her wife Mulan like aunts, and Granny Lucas, now retired from working in the kitchens, is the grandmother that she never had. Killian now has an unquestioned place in it.

The fact that Rumplestiltskin threatened them at all makes her want to put out his eye again, and with far more prejudice this time around. She’s never had to lose anyone, at least, not like this. The real rage comes from thinking about what could have happened. What if the enchantment had been too strong for her? What if she hadn’t been strong enough to stop the automatons? What if Killian hadn’t been there to push her father out of the way? What if the automaton had been faster and cut down her father as well? 

Gods, and for _ what _? All for her to open a portal? The reckless disregard for life makes her see red.

Before she can really think over her actions aside from the blinding rage that’s gone from simmering to boiling over, her hand is in the Dark One’s chest, her hand gripped around his beating heart.

She feels the flutter of his magic attempting to push her back, but it feels as feeble as the flap of a butterfly’s wing against her glowing skin. Gods, is it her imagination, or is she getting brighter? The river of power surges behind the dam, the sun is rising again, and she feels utterly untouchable.

She pulls the heart out of his chest.

It’s an ugly, shriveled thing, crawling with darkness and telling of years of cruelty and evil. The darkness moves across it like a shifting web, occasionally letting one small spot of red shine through. 

“I could crush this right now,” Emma murmurs, “and you wouldn’t be able to stop me.” She wonders what it would feel like, to crush a heart with magic. Would it be slick and slimy, like if she’d taken it out with a sword? Would it vanish in smoke and fire, like a simple magicians trick? Would it dissolve into dust in her hand?

“Emma.”

Killian’s voice cuts through the fog of magical energy around her, ceasing her contemplations of crushing the heart.

She looks over at him. He’s right next to her shoulder, so close that she could lean into him if she wanted to, so it’s impossible to miss the expression on his face. She’s always thought it funny that a swashbuckling, larger-than-life pirate could so poorly fail to hide the heart on his sleeve.

He’s scared. Of her?

“Love, come on now,” he says gently. “This isn’t you.”

Oh, not scared of her. Scared _ for _ her.

“But this—” She’s about to say _ this is what you’ve always wanted, _but realizes that that’s not accurate. Not anymore.

He shakes his head as though he knows where she was going. “Revenge is a road you don’t want to go down. It brought me nothing but pain and torment, and made me into a man that I would never want you to know.”

“But if I crush this, I end him,” Emma says. “Right here, right now.”

“It’s not easy to come back from,” another voice says. “Trust me. I know.” It’s the woman Emma doesn’t know, the one with magic who told her saving Killian wasn’t possible. She smiles wryly. “You don’t know me, but I know you. My name is Regina.”

The Evil Queen. She certainly doesn’t look very evil now. She’s much softer than Emma had ever imagined. Illustrators always made her look sharp, demonic, and inhuman. But Regina is older than Snow, her face creased and maternal.

Regina continues, “I was right where you are now. A heart in my hands and a choice. Magic makes everything you do different, Emma. More important. This isn’t just an enemy slain like you could do with a sword. Magic is balance. A crushed heart?” She exhales softly, her expression one of remembrance, her eyes downcast. “That tips your scales forever, because you learn that if you can do that, well. You can do almost anything,” she finishes softly. She looks up again, conviction in her gaze. “The only reason I’m here is because your parents chose to forgive me. There’s more strength in radical forgiveness than there is in this,” Regina points to the heart in her hand. “Be stronger, Emma.”

And Emma—

Emma doesn’t disagree with her, not entirely. Her parents were sure to raise her to value kindness over anger, to react with sympathy rather than suspicion.

But Rumplestiltskin is dangerous. Without a doubt, he is dangerous. Sure, she bested him this time, but what if that’s just a fluke, courtesy of the water from Urd? What if, next time, he doesn’t strike a deal with her, and just decides to murder Killian, or her parents, and she can do nothing about it? If she ends him, the threat of him ends right here.

“Emma, we love you,” this from her father, who stands next to her mother not far from Regina. “You don’t have to do this. We have plenty of other ways to deal with him.”

“Pandora’s Box can hold him forever. So can the Urn of Arendelle,” Snow adds. “This isn’t all on you to solve. We can help you.”

“Until someone inevitably lets him out,” Emma says, her anger simmering down but her rationale picking back up. “Maybe it’s not in our lifetimes, or even in your great-great grandchildren’s lifetime, but—” she swallows when she realizes how right she is. “The story of what’s in Pandora’s Box or the Urn will get lost. Someone will open it, and whoever does will end up right where we are.” She looks back at Rumplestiltskin, whose fear seems to have bled into resignation. Emma says, “I can’t—this is my responsibility. I can’t just kick it off for someone else to deal with. How could I ever be that selfish?”

“Emma,” Killian says again, and he moves closer to her, sliding an arm around her waist and resting his forehead against the side of her head. “I’m supposed to be the cynical one of the two of us.”

That nearly makes her laugh. A little huff escapes her. “I don’t want to kill him. But I have to. How long has the Dark One terrorized this realm?” She freezes.

Wait.

_ This realm. _

“If I send you to the Land Without Magic,” Emma says, “will you be able to return?” She clenches his heart. “Tell the truth.”

“No,” Rumplestiltskin grinds out, “without magic, I will have no way to return.”

“Will you be able to hurt people when you get there? Will you still be the Dark One?”

“No more than any normal, mortal man,” he shares, still reluctant.

“Then why do you want to go there?” Emma asks flatly, staring down at the heart in her hand. When he doesn’t answer, her fingers tighten around the heart. It shudders against her hold. “Tell me.”

Another heavy second passes before finally gasps, “My son!” It’s a pained admittance, but now that he’s said it, the dam has broken. “I need to find my son! I lost him many years ago and I just want to find my boy. I just want to find my son.”

Emma looks up again. To her shock, the Dark One’s eyes are filled with tears. With his heart in her hands, she can feel the truth in his confession. The tears, like his words, are entirely genuine.

Emma trembles and says, “I would’ve helped, you know.” She says it softly, almost warm, but after everything, her tone doesn’t verge on kind. “If you had just asked for my help, I would’ve helped you.”

Before he gets a chance to respond, Emma shoves his heart back into his chest and turns away from him, breaking Killian’s hold on her and facing towards the glowing ring behind them.

In a single motion, she reaches out for it, letting herself move on instinct. The sun that has been burning hotter and hotter guides her motions. Her open hand closes in a fist, closes around the strands between realms, and she raises it swiftly towards the ceiling—tearing open a vein between realms. The action brings a long column of light up from the ring, and it blasts straight through the roof, the light of the portal so bright it’s hard to look at it directly.

She can feel the pulse of the worlds around her, feels like she can shuffle through them with ease like pages in a book until she finds the one she wants.

_ Let him find his child _, she thinks.

Then reaches back, grasps Rumplestiltskin by the shirt, and throws him into it.

* * *

In the Land Without Magic, Bae is spat out through the portal. He stands, turns, frantically searching for his father—even if it didn’t seem like he would follow him, he can’t believe his father would just refuse, would just abandon him—

Behind him, a white light that rivals the brightness of the sun flares to life. Bae stumbles forward before he turns, shielding his eyes from the glare. It dies as quickly as it came to be, and it takes a few moments for the spots in his vision to clear and his eyes to adjust but it’s—

“Papa!” he cries and throws himself into his father’s arms. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me!”

“My boy,” he says, thready and weak. “My _ boy _.”

Bae wonders why his father’s embrace seems so desperate—they’d just seen each other on the other side of the portal, but his father is acting as though he hasn’t seen him in years.

Rumple eventually pulls away hands on his son’s shoulders as he looks him up and down. His eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, and it makes something twist in Bae. “You’re unhurt?”

“Yes, I—I’m fine,” Bae replies. He notices then that his father’s attire is the same as ever was, but his face is back to the way it had been before he became the Dark One. “Your curse. Is it—?”

“It’s—” Rumplestiltskin doesn’t hear the whisper of the darkness in his ear. Doesn’t feel the weight of it that he’d carried for hundreds of years. He reaches for the small sheath at his side where he keeps the dagger and withdraws it. He feels no pull to it, no compulsion to answer its call. There’s no call at all, not a whisper. It’s just a blade, and he is just a man. “It can’t hurt us anymore. It has no power here.” he says, and his eyes find the middle distance for a moment.

Bae has gotten too good at reading his father and knows something is not quite right. “What happened? What did you do?”

His father shakes his head, “It’s nothing. Someone with a kind heart helped me follow you.”

“You didn’t rip it out or anything, did you?”

“Of course not. Quite the contrary, actually.”

Bae tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “No one got hurt to get you here?”

Rumplestiltskin is a master of telling selective truth. He smiles. “Everyone was just fine when I left.”

* * *

Now Killian knows it’s not his imagination, Emma is shining brighter now than she did when they’d first found her. Her shoulders rise and fall in deep breaths. As swiftly as she’d opened it and shoved Rumplestiltskin through it, one gesture with her hand collapses the column of light downwards, and it vanishes with little fanfare.

She makes a small pained, exhausted noise, and he steps toward her to take her in his arms, to celebrate because she did it. Gods, she’s amazing, and he doesn’t think he’s ever loved her more—

Regina’s hand grabs his elbow and jerks him backwards. “Wait,” she hisses.

“Regina—”

“There’s something wrong,” she says.

Emma turns around, looking battle-shocked and shaking. Killian’s heart drops when he realizes that not only is Emma getting brighter, but it looks like her skin is cracking. Like a ceramic vase that’s been fired at the wrong temperature, a single fissure slowly webs up Emma’s cheek, blinding light blazing through it.

“Emma,” David breathes, both he and Snow stepping towards their daughter like Killian had just tried to do. Regina holds out an arm, barring them from approaching.

“This is the price,” Regina says.

Emma whimpers as webs of cracks start forming across her knuckles. Killian starts forward again, “We can’t just let her—” but Regina stops him again with an arm across his chest. He’s tempted to push past her, because Emma is right there and she is _ hurting _.

“What’s happening to me?” Emma asks shakily, and Killian desperately wants to hold her when she sounds like that—unsure and small and afraid.

“The cyclical curse,” Robin surmises from behind them, “isn’t it?”

Regina nods. “That first explosion you caused was only the beginning,” she says. “The water from Urd. It goes through phases, like the moon, waxing and waning. When it reaches its peak power—”

They all remember. Blasted into oblivion.

They’d all seen the _ HIGH PRICE _ written with emphasis in the Dark One’s notes.

“So I’m a bomb,” Emma concludes, “and I’m going to keep going on this explode-repair-repeat cycle.”

“Yes.” Regina’s expression is bleak, and Killian feels his heart breaking. There is no way their story ends like this.

“Gods, that’s fucking rough,” Emma gasps, almost managing to laugh. The cracks on her face creep down her neck. “Couldn’t have just been—” Another gasp, this one without any mirth, but Emma tries to smile through it. “Couldn’t have just been a sleeping curse, huh? That would’ve been an easy enough solve.”

“We need to go,” Regina says, “or we’ll probably be incinerated.”

“We can’t just leave her here!” Snow exclaims. “There has to be a way to save her!”

“She’s a whole damn storehouse of powderkegs, and the fuse is about to reach it,” Regina snaps.

Snow says, “Emma, we’re not going to give up—”

“We can’t find a solution if we’re all dead,” Robin says, and David responds with something heated back, but Killian can’t look away from Emma.

She mentioned an easy solve to a sleeping curse. Even before he met Emma, he knew the story of Snow White and her Prince Charming. Even before that, in stories and legends, they always said True Love’s Kiss can break any curse.

He knows what he has to do.

He pushes past Regina, catching her off guard as she argues with the Charmings over their retreat. He lets their exclamations of caution fall away, focusing only on Emma.

Stepping into her space is like stepping into a blacksmith’s forge. The heat radiating off of Emma is intense, heavy, a fitting companion for the amount of light she is giving off. The cracks are growing, expanding in a web across her body, and disappearing under her clothes. Her hands, her face, her arms, all covered in thin, glowing fractures.

“Killian, no, I can’t keep it in,” Emma protests, taking a step away from him. Another pained wince stops her.

He doesn’t pursue her any further, and instead reaches out for her, his hand extended towards her. “Is this a bad time to say that our chemistry is explosive?”

She manages a laugh, a smile, in spite of the magic splitting her skin. “The worst time,” she says, not meeting his gaze. 

Gods, his heart is racing, there is a steady thrum of fear in the back of his mind that he will somehow fail her in this, but if there is one thing he does know, it’s that he loves her. That will be enough. He just has to—

He almost laughs when he realizes that he just has to believe, just has to have hope, and if there is one thing he believes in, one thing that he is hopeful for, it is her.

“Look at me, love.” She does, and he smiles back. “Do you trust me?”

Her expression softens. She looks down at his hand. “Yes,” she replies. She reaches back, her hand fitting into his. Her skin is uncomfortably hot, but their fingers fit together like they always do.

He steps into her space, his hooked arm going around her waist. He releases her hand and runs a finger from her chin back to her jaw. His hand settles just behind her ear.

“I love you,” he breathes into the space between their mouths, as if there was ever any doubt.

“I love you,” she answers.

He kisses her.

And feels magic.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The last one. Thank you for hanging with me.
> 
> The rating has officially changed, though if you'd like to skip it, the smut doesn't happen until the last three thousand words.

When Killian had stepped up to her and asked her if she trusted him, Emma had been moments away from hurling herself in the opposite direction. She could feel the sun inside her, splitting her skin, feel the heat and power and danger of it barely held in check. The dam had been about to break.

But his certainty had drawn her in. This insane curse on her might not be the sleeping curse that had once afflicted her mother, but it is still a _ curse _. She knows the stories better than anyone. Her parents lived it. True Love’s Kiss can break any curse.

Any doubt she might’ve had about their feelings for one other has long since melted away. She’s known his love for her and hers for him for years now, felt the strength and courage and empathy it’s given her. How it has made her softer and stronger all at once. Besides, he’s always made her feel like she’s capable of achieving the impossible.

“I love you,” he whispers. The naked vulnerability in his eyes makes her heart ache.

Everything fades away, and her view of the world narrows to him.

“I love you,” she replies.

She kisses him.

And feels magic.

A ripple goes out from them like a shockwave, a wave of rainbow light that rushes away them like a sharp breeze. Warmth and love and their depth of feeling rushes over her like an ocean wave, and she feels, for a moment, like they are one.

Quite suddenly, the power that had been threatening to tear her apart is extinguished like a snuffed candle’s flame. Simply _ gone _.

She smiles into his kiss because it _ worked _. They will be okay. Everyone is safe and unhurt, and the Dark One is gone for good in a land where he can do no more harm. A different feeling rises in Emma’s chest, not the burning power from before, but magic in its own way. The love she has for the man in front of her is overwhelming in that moment, affection blended with relief and happiness.

He makes a sound deep in his chest when she brings her fingers to his hair and grips tightly, and his arm around her pulls her ever closer. She would keep kissing him forever, but the rest of the world has come bleeding back, and she just barely hears her dad’s pointed cough from behind them and is reminded of their audience.

Emma reluctantly breaks away, loathe to do so but practicality making it a necessity. She looks up at Killian, everything much sharper, easier to focus on now that the power of Urd is no longer holding her captive. The blinding smile on his face is infectious. He pulls her in for a hug, and Emma can’t resist it, letting her chin rest against his shoulder and the side of her head rest against his.

“You’re all right,” he marvels, sounding wrecked by what they just accomplished. “You’re okay.” Urd’s curse is gone. Everyone is safe by virtue of the love they share for each other, and if that isn’t something to marvel at while she has him in her arms, she doesn’t know what is.

“Yeah,” Emma agrees softly. “I never thought—” Her fingers tighten against his coat, and she doesn’t finish her thought before she’s pulling away from him. She gives him a look that conveys a promise, a _ this isn’t finished _ , a _ we’ll talk later _.

He’s reluctant to let her go, and she isn’t eager to do so either, but he isn’t the only one who has feared for her safety.

Snow and David rush to where they stand, their arms going around her and clutching her close to them. A different kind of love rises in her chest at the feeling of their embrace. “We were so worried about you,” Snow whispers.

“I’m sorry,” Emma offers. She has a lot to explain. Distantly, a wounded part of her wonders if they were responsible for the suppression hex that Rumplestiltskin had mentioned, but those are questions for later, questions for a time when the relief of being held by her mom and dad doesn’t feel so raw and necessary.

“Don’t apologize,” Charming says, his voice thick with emotion. “Gods, don’t apologize.”

A chunk of the ceiling falls across the room from them, startling them all and Emma and her parents jump apart.

Regina looks up. “We should probably get out of here. Wouldn’t be a very fitting end to this journey if the castle collapses on top of us,” she finishes dryly.

Her parents look like they aren’t ready for their hug to be over, but Emma nods at Regina. “I’d rather not hang around here any longer than I have to.”

* * *

Snow is conflicted. 

On one hand, Emma is safe. Relief is an inadequate word for what she’s feeling after Hook and her daughter shared True Love’s Kiss and saved her from the cyclical curse. To hold her daughter in her arms after fearing for her life is indescribable. To know that she will be alright, to know that she has someone who truly loves her, enough to create magic and break curses, is everything Snow could’ve ever dreamed.

On the other hand, magic has caused them no small amount of grief in their lives, and she can’t say she’s thrilled to find her daughter to be such an apparent natural at it. She’s been trying to come to terms since Regina told them, point blank, that Emma has it. On one hand, magic nearly cost Regina her sanity, resulted in the deaths of thousands, drove Rumplestiltskin to dark madness, cursed Ruby with her wolf form that killed Peter, and countless other cautionary tales from their lives. On the other hand, it was magic from the love she shares with David that awoke her from the sleeping curse. True love is magic, and as Regina described it, Emma’s magic is cut from the same cloth.

Still, Emma did come perilously close to killing Rumplestiltskin in the way that Regina had killed so many of Snow’s subjects, friends, and allies.

It’s an uncomfortable image, one that Snow knows is going to linger in her mind long after today.

Regina gives Emma an impromptu lesson on teleportation and doesn’t let her try to transport anyone aside from herself. (“You’re a lot less liable to leave behind your own arm or leg compared to someone else’s when you’re new to magical transport.”) She picks it up without much of a problem, teleporting herself out of the castle without a struggle.

“She’s talented,” Regina says before she makes a few quick gestures, and her own magic is rising around them and transporting the rest of their party outside the castle. She promptly collapses against a nearby tree when her magic dissipates. 

“Regina!” Robin cries, and he rushes to her side.

“I’m okay,” Regina says, unconvincingly. She braces herself against the trunk, her breathing heavy. She wipes a hand across her nose and checks her knuckles, as though she was anticipating blood. “It’s been a long time since I’ve used this much magic.” She chuckles. “I’m out of shape.”

Robin says, “You’re riding with me. Emma can take Junior.” His tone brooks no argument, but Regina doesn’t seem keen to offer one.

Emma casts a longing glance at Hook--Snow remembers the desire to be close after a True Love’s Kiss. As much as she still has so many questions surrounding their relationship, that kind of magic can’t be faked. Whatever it might mean for them going forward, Captain Hook truly loves Emma, and she truly loves him.

Emma doesn’t complain though, and agrees to take Regina’s horse instead.

“Junior doesn’t like having a strong hand on the bit,” Regina says as Emma mounts up. “She responds to leg cues better, so be sure to--”

“Darling, I think Emma will be able to handle her,” Robin interrupts. “Relax.”

“Sorry,” Regina says, and it makes Snow smile a little. For all that Regina’s changed over the years, it’s comforting to find things that are still familiar. Still reminiscent of the kind young woman who loved horses and saved Snow’s life.

They set off away from the castle, Robin leading the way, and as though gravitating around each other, Emma and Hook end up side by side. Snow and Charming bring up the rear. There’s a thousand things she needs to say, but she can’t put words to any of them. She looks over at Charming, whose expression is hard to read, but she has a feeling his emotions are a close match to hers.

“Lovely day for a ride,” Hook comments with a grin, and Snow looks forward again to see him and Emma smiling at each other. “Almost as lovely as my riding companion.”

Emma laughs. “You know, I think your flirting game has gotten weaker over the years.”

He dramatically clutches his chest. “Emma, you wound me. The ‘explosive chemistry’ line was some of my best work.”

Emma lifts her leg from the horse’s side and pokes Killian’s calf with her toe. “‘Best work’ my ass. I’ve heard your good lines. That was lower-mid tier at best.”

Their light banter continues on and off for the duration of the ride, and Snow can’t help but devour everything they say. It’s like these conversations are puzzle pieces, small windows into the relationship that has meant so much to Emma for years. They mention places Snow has never heard of, people she’s never met. She’s heard the old adage that once your children reach a certain age, you will never fully know them again, and it’s only now that Snow feels like that is the truth.

They reach Robin and Regina’s village before long, the sun still high in the sky, though it has long since slipped past high noon.

“You are all more than welcome to stay,” Robin suggests. Regina doesn’t have the same naturally welcoming disposition as her husband, but she manages to look agreeable to his offer.

“We should be able to reach home by nightfall,” Snow says. “You’ve already done more than enough for us.”

“We can at least draw your horses some water before you go,” Regina offers, and once her husband dismounts, he helps her down. Regina looks a bit steadier than before, but she’s still far too pale. Robin makes sure she’s securely leaning against the fence before he goes to a nearby trough to draw some water for their mounts.

“Charming, would you mind taking Claudius over for me?” she asks.

“Of course,” he answers. Once they’re both on the ground, Snow hands over the reins to David and walks over to where Regina is staring at her with one eyebrow cocked.

“Claudius?”

Snow laughs. “Emma named him after her favorite character from… oh, which one was it that she was obsessed with that year… _ The Pauper in Armor _! That was it.” Gods, how many discussions had she and David endured from teenage Emma about how the Lady Alyssa had been better off without Sir Peter, whose fated match was alluded to be Sir Gregory anyway, and should’ve chosen Claudius instead.

“If it’s any consolation, we let Eliza name my horse when we first brought her home. She was four and decided that ‘Juney Booney Dooney Dots’ was the perfect name for our newest foal.” Regina smiles wistfully. “I wasn’t going to overrule her, but I did reserve the right to give her a nickname.”

Snow snorts softly. “The things we do for our children.”

“Indeed,” Regina agrees, quiet.

Snow looks around--at Hook and Emma making eyes at each other leaning on an opposite fence, at Robin chatting animatedly with David who seems to be concentrating very hard on not looking at Hook and Emma--and is struck quite suddenly by a sharp sense of appreciation.

“Listen, Regina--”

Regina holds up a hand and shakes her head. “I know what you’re going to say and--” she cuts herself off with a sigh. “It was the right thing to do. I’m not the Evil Queen anymore, but my scales are far from balanced.”

Snow smiles a little. “Scales balanced or not, I do owe you a thank you.” She can see Regina about to protest. “We wouldn’t have been able to get Emma out if it weren’t for you.”

Regina scoffs a little and looks over at Emma. “She did a pretty good job of saving herself there, at the end.”

Snow tries to hide her wince at imagining Emma nearly killing Rumplestiltskin, but apparently doesn’t do a good enough job.

“I know she scared you, what with the whole--” Regina mimes crushing a heart, “--you know, ‘reminding you of me’ thing. But go easy on her,” she says, and both of them cast their gazes over at Emma, whose smile is bright enough to rival the stars. Hook says something that makes her tip her head back and laugh. “What she chose to do wasn’t easy.”

Snow lets out a breath. “Choosing kindness rarely is.” She turns away from Emma and looks at Regina. “Thank you.”

She lets out a frustrated sound. “I told you--”

Snow chuckles. “I know, I know.”

Before long, the horses seem ready to get going again. Robin offers an extra horse so that all of them may have their own mounts heading back, but Emma is quick to turn him down. “We’ll be okay doubling up. We wouldn’t want to impose any more than we already have.”

Robin chuckles. “Well, we certainly don’t have a shortage of good horses around here, but I won’t insist,” he says before heading to Regina’s side, clearly intending on escorting her inside.

As they begin to mount up, Regina calls out, “Wait!”

They all freeze and glance back, but Regina’s eyes are focused solely on Emma.

“Wait,” Regina repeats before she turns to Robin as says, “I’m not going to keel over. Would you mind going to make some tea for me?” 

Robin sighs, but acquiesces. “If you _ do _ happen to keel over, I reserve the right to hold it over you for the rest of our lives.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less. Emma,” she says, turning back, “come here for a minute.”

“Oh,” Emma says, “uh, sure.”

She walks over to Regina without the hesitation that had colored her voice. Their conversation is brief, and Snow can’t make out any words, but Emma comes away from it looking pensive.

Hook also notices, and he beats her to the punch in asking, “Everything alright, love?”

“Yeah,” she assures, absently. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… really want to go home.”

As they set off towards home, Snow’s heart is weighted with all the things she wishes to say to her daughter, and her mind occupied with what Regina might’ve said to her.

* * *

Silence descends as their group of four winds through the forests at the outer edge of Misthaven. Emma quietly stews, tension in her shoulders as she thinks over Regina’s words to her once more.

_ “I have a few things I want to say before I go pass out,” Regina says once Emma is in front of her. “First, there’s the matter of the suppression hex.” _

_ Emma startles. “How’d you know about that?” _

_ “Because I made it,” she answers brusquely. “Now before you jump to any conclusions, no, I didn’t put it on you. I just made it.” _

_ “You made it but didn’t cast it? But that… I don’t understand.” _

_ Regina rolls her eyes. “Right, because you never got trained.” _

_ Emma feels annoyance rise sharply. She might owe Regina a lot, and she’s certainly a better person than Emma had always assumed the Evil Queen would be, but the rudeness chafes at her. “And that’s my fault, how?” _

_ She shakes her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong.” Her tone shifts to that of a tutor, an expert who is simplifying something that is probably quite complex, “A hex is a spell that must be crafted by a dark magic user, but can then be cast by anyone if they have the incantation to place it.” _

_ “Who asked you to make it?” Emma asks, half-dreading the answer. _Please don’t say my parents. Please don’t say they asked for it.

_ “The Blue Fairy.” _

_ “I--what? Really?” _

_ Regina nods. “I don’t want to tell you who to trust, but…” Her look turns piercing. “Be careful. Magic is… complicated, but I can tell you that it’s a sharp blade--one that can be used to either shear a sheep or cut its throat.” _

_ “Rumplestiltskin said something similar,” Emma remembers. “Power to destroy or save, or something like that. Had to do with some weird prophecy.” _

_ Regina looks interested at that. “Destroyer or Savior?” she asks, as if quoting something. _

_ “Yeah. Why? Is that important?” _

_ Regina’s lips purse, then she shakes her head. “Maybe, but don’t worry about it now. I only wanted to tell you that you have people on your side who love you, and that--” Regina swallows, a far off look in her eyes, “--that can make all the difference in the world. Don’t shut them out. The pirate clearly adores you. Your parents might be nervous about your magic at first, but they will be there for you no matter what. And if you would like more lessons on how to refine your control, you know where to find me.” _

Blue has never been her friend, but she is certainly someone her parents have trusted. She has an open seat on their Council if she wishes for it, though fairy business keeps it vacant far more often than not. She apparently helped them innumerable times in their conflict with Regina and the Dark One. Since Regina’s turn, peace has been more common than strife, so Blue hasn’t been needed as urgently as she had been back then, so Emma doesn’t really know her.

That doesn’t make it any easier to swallow that one of her parents’ trusted allies willfully concocted a plan to suppress her magic using a hex, all in complete secrecy.

Her arms tighten around Killian’s waist.

“Swan?” he asks softly.

The old nickname makes her shiver. It’ll take some time to forget what it meant to Rumplestiltskin.

“Did Regina tell you about the hex?” she whispers.

“She did,” he replies, keeping his volume as soft as hers.

It takes her a moment to gather the courage to ask, “My parents didn’t know anything about it, did they?”

“No,” he answers. “Not a chance.”

His certainty makes her relax a little. Her life has suddenly become very strange, with magic and prophecies and curses, it’s nice to know at least some of the foundations she’s come to rely on are still there. Killian, her mom, and her dad. She doesn’t want to imagine a life where she doesn’t have them, and thankfully, she won’t have to.

They arrive back at the castle with little fanfare—it is nighttime, the sun having dipped below the horizon a few hours prior. The stars seem to shine with a particular intensity tonight, highlighted rather than drowned by the glow of the nearly full moon. Emma’s attention is more focused on the man in front of her than the night sky.

Even in the soft, blue light of the moon, she can see that he looks pensive. They hadn’t had much of a chance to speak to one another, truly speak to one another, since they’d come for her. She doesn’t know what she’d say exactly, the experiences of the last few days an unexpected avalanche of discoveries.

With the late hour, it’s not until they are close to the gates and visible in the orange light cast by the torches on the path that they hear shouts of “The Queen and King have returned! They have the Princess with them!”

They’re quickly escorted through the gates by a small contingent of infantry, and are greeted in the palace courtyard by two stablehands who take their horses once they dismount.

All around them, guards scurry about, runners take messages to their various posts, and her family’s personal servants are starting to buzz around them. They take outerwear and swordbelts and weaponry, and Emma is quite suddenly overwhelmed by the noise. Every well-wish uttered by one of her ladies’ maids is like a needle to her skin, every offer of assistance like a pebble in her boot.

Killian seems to notice that she’s gone tense beside him, and he reaches for her. His hand fits in hers with practiced ease.

“That’s enough,” he says quietly to the servants. “We can handle the rest ourselves.”

They look at Emma, then back to Killian, then at each other before they acquiesce; they bow before taking their leave.

Meanwhile, the King and Queen have been divested of their many accoutrements by their seasoned staff and turn towards them.

“We’ve sent word to the kitchens,” Snow says. “There will be some food waiting for us there.”

Emma wants to protest, because she is more exhausted than she can ever remember being, but her stomach quickly reminds her that her sleep isn’t the only thing that’s been neglected since she’d gone with Rumplestiltskin in the meadow.

She can also tell that her mother is dying to talk to her alone. They hadn’t had much of a chance, what with Emma’s reluctance to leave Killian’s side since they’d left the Dark One’s palace. Honestly, she still doesn’t want to part with him, both of their brushes with death leaving too deep a wound to yet be fully healed.

However, she knows that she’s been a bit selfish with her time, and her parents had been desperately worried about her too. “Sounds nice,” Emma says softly, tightening her hand around Killian’s in a silent confirmation that he’s staying with her.

She sees the tension around his eyes ease; she knows his fears about her parents’ approval, but if he thinks she’s going to tell him to go back to his ship after everything that’s happened, then he’s got another thing coming.

Their walk to the kitchens in silent, from exhaustion more than anything else, but Emma suspects that her parents don’t quite know what to say to her. There’s a lot they must want to ask.

She’s not angry that Killian told them that they were in love—it’d be silly of her to get mad about that with the circumstances, especially since they’d been planning on telling them anyway. But she made her bed when she decided to keep him a secret even after it became quite clear to her he wasn’t just a casual dalliance or a friend with benefits, and now she has to lie in it.

In the kitchen, they see a tray of brown, seedy bread, an assortment of yellow and white hard cheeses, cold smoked ham, a block of churned butter, as well as fresh sliced fruit including oranges, mangoes, and strawberries set on the small table meant for staff meals, and without much fanfare they all take seats and begin eating.

It’s an informal affair, eating with their fingers and straight off the tray. The only cutlery in sight is the knife for the butter. Emma can’t help but smile when Killian goes straight for the fruit. Despite not having much of a sweet tooth, her pirate has confessed he won’t say no to a delicacy like that when it’s put in front of him. 

Emma puts together a sandwich loaded down with ham and cheddar and butter and when she takes a bite, she damn near moans. It tastes like the best thing she’s ever had the pleasure of eating, and she’s had delicacies the realm over from the best cooks in innumerable royal kitchens.

She catches Killian’s expression out of the corner of her eye. Apparently she did not stifle the moan as well as she thought she did, and his quirked brow and suggestive smirk nearly make her laugh around her mouthful of food.

She looks across the table to where her parents appear to be having one of their silent conversations—probably trying to debate who’s going to break the silence.

Emma decides to take the leap for them. She swallows her bite of sandwich and says, “Just ask what you want to ask.”

Snow and Charming startle at her unexpected interruption, and both turn to face her with relieved looks.

Snow takes the initiative. “So where did the two of you meet?” she asks, and it comes out in a rush, as thought that question has been on the tip of her tongue since Killian announced his love for Emma in the throne room.

Killian huffs a soft laugh beside her. 

“Outside The Cat & Crow. A little ways off from the thirteenth pier,” Emma answers.

Her parents’ eyes widen at the mention of the somewhat infamous bar in the seedier part of the port district.

“A couple drunk guys followed me out,” Emma says and cocks her head to the side, “Killian saw and wanted to make sure I was okay.”

“My concern was unfounded, I might add,” Killian says, a touch of pride in his voice that warms Emma to her core. “I came upon her knocking them out with utter aplomb in an alleyway.”

Her parents still look a bit scandalized on her behalf, but they both seem comforted by Killian’s assurance.

“He offered to walk me home,” Emma continues, “and then we kind of just… kept walking.” She leaves out the enthusiastic makeout session at the end of said walk.

“You didn’t recognize her?” David asks.

Killian shakes his head. “Believe it or not, most commoners don’t make a habit of memorizing portraiture of their monarchs.” He shrugs, “Even if they did, who would expect to see the princess, the Swan of Misthaven herself, dressed down in trousers and drinking pirates twice her size under the table?”

Snow chuckles a little at that, and rubs a hand across her eyes before saying, “Oh, honey, you are more like me than I ever could’ve imagined.”

Emma is a little stunned at that. She’d heard plenty about her mother’s time as a bandit, and her parents’ turn as renegade rulers who brought down the Evil Queen, but she’s never been privy to any drinking stories. She isn’t really sure she wants to be privy to that, at any rate.

“So when did he find out that you were the princess?” David asks.

“A few months on in our acquaintance,” Killian answers.

Emma adds, “We didn’t—” She cuts herself off with a huff and tries to find the right words. Killian’s hand finds hers under the table, comforting and steadying. “We didn’t jump right into anything,” she finally says. “We were friends first. It was nice to have someone who had no idea who I was. Someone who was nice and charming because he wanted to flirt with _ me _, not the Princess of Misthaven.”

Killian blushes. She gently elbows him, his shyness uncharacteristic but incredibly endearing. Her parents witnessed their True Love’s Kiss—it can’t be shocking to learn that their daughter’s true love flirted with her. Hell, they’d done enough light flirting on the way back that it shouldn’t come as any surprise.

“If he knew who you were all that time, then why didn’t you tell us?” Snow asked, poorly disguised anguish in her voice.

Emma bites the inside of her cheek and puts the remainder of her sandwich down on the table, not meeting her parents’ gaze.

“Did you not trust us?” her father asks, and the tone of naked hurt makes a wince zip across Emma’s face.

“Not… exactly,” she answers haltingly. “At first, I wasn’t… I don’t know, I wasn’t sure where this was going. Then it became something more--a lot more, and then I just--” She runs a frustrated hand over her hair. “Telling you would make it real. I was so scared that it would change everything, but I realized that if I kept letting my fear control me, we could never move forward.”

She looks over at Killian and finds an open expression of tenderness on his face. The confession she’d given her parents was very similar to what she’d said years ago when she’d admitted to denying her feelings for him, and she can still hear his answer ringing in her ears.

(_ I’m ready for it to be real, Emma. Just tell me you want this as much as I do. _)

“And then we have the practical reason,” she continues, “It’s one thing to marry a shepherd, and another to marry a wanted criminal. And before you say something like ‘well, we don’t care about that,’ don’t lie. You do, at least a little. You guys have had some strong opinions about villains over the years. And I know you don’t play politics that much, but your heir courting a pirate would literally cause anarchy. I might hate it, but I pay attention to court drama. We would get eaten alive.”

Emma’s next sigh is heavy, contemplative. “I just could never see a future without having one _ and _ the other. I couldn’t tell you until I could figure out a way to have him in my life in the public eye.”

“So,” David says, “have you? Found a way.”

Emma straightens herself and puts down the remains of her sandwich. She lays out the particulars of her plan in as great detail as she can manage. She already has drafted paperwork to make the Jolly Roger an official privateer vessel of the crown of Misthaven--sealed with the crest of the Royal Family, and carefully filed into the Royal payroll. Dated a year previous than when Emma actually placed it under the _ Independent Contractor--Single Payment--Fulfilled _ category. (Here, her parents had gaped for a few seconds before Emma waved them off and said she never paid Killian for anything.) 

Then would come the commission from Misthaven’s Navy, which would be only slightly more difficult to procure. “But after our daring privateer’s heroic actions in helping to save the Princess from the much-hated Dark One,” Emma explains, “it wouldn’t be too much for the King and Queen to ask the Admiral for an official military commission for his efforts. After all, he helped us rid the whole realm of a dire threat. It would be the height of foolishness for us to allow such a valuable military asset out of our grasp,” she says, exactly how she’d say it if she was the one with the power to ask for such things.

She continues, “As an officer of the military, Killian would be far from an objectionable match for me, though I already know which members of the Court will get fussy.” She wrinkles her nose thinking about them. “Their complaints will hardly be legitimate, and I have strategies in mind to deal with any rumblings about it if the need arises.”

Snow and Charming sit frozen, looking equal parts shocked and impressed with her thoroughness.

Snow says slowly, “You’ve… certainly thought this through.”

Emma loves her parents, and she’d never tell them to their faces, but their lack of playing politics is part of what made it so easy for Regina to take over in the first place. “Someone’s got to.”

(She’s already taken the first legal steps to start stamping out his criminal record in neighboring kingdoms. In all honesty, it shouldn’t be terribly hard; Killian might be an extremely adept pirate, but his moral code does make him at the very least a respected adversary. He is lenient with crews that surrender, does not pillage or rape the way many of his contemporaries do, and is quick to take slaving ships without mercy. The ones she likely won’t be able to sort out in court are from the kingdoms doing the slaving, who Killian targets mercilessly and purposefully, but not having an amicable relationship with those places is no great loss.)

“We’ll run it by the Council,” David says, “but I don’t see any reason why they will object.”

“It’s more of a plan than I had when I married David,” Snow says.

“Good,” Emma says. “So does that cover everything?”

David and Snow share a glance. When they look back, it’s at Killian. “We still have questions for Hook--or Killian, rather.”

Emma despairs a little--she wants to go to bed. Not that spending time with her parents is a chore, exactly, but retreating to her bedroom with Killian in tow sounds like paradise at the moment. She reminds herself that she owes them this time, and stays quiet.

She looks over at him, his expression neutral and open, despite the tiredness she can see lingering at the corners of his eyes. “I’m an open book.”

They ask him how old he really is (somewhere between 200 and 300 years--he lost track in Neverland), why was he in Neverland so long (trapped in Pan’s service, and his escape cost him dearly), where was he from originally (a large kingdom called Northumber across the sea), what was his family like (his mother raised him and his eldest brother until she passed in his seventh year.) 

“What about your father?” David asks. 

Killian immediately tenses beside her, and she holds his hand a little tighter. “Not worth mentioning,” is his response.

Her parents seem to sense that this isn’t a topic that can be easily broached, so they move on.

“Emma’s plan for the two of you,” Snow says, “You are all right with it?”

“It’s well thought-out. I think it will work.”

“And you’re prepared to be consort to a future queen?” David asks.

Killian chuckles. “Admittedly, it’s not where I’d envisioned my life going.” Emma glances over to find him already looking at her. “But it’s all worth it as long as I can spend my life with her.”

David and Snow appear satisfied by his answer. “We’re glad to hear it,” David says.

“Forgive us for the inquisition,” Snow adds.

“An explanation was the least we could give,” Emma answers, then takes a deep breath. “And if you want to ask about my magic or Rumplestiltskin, then I can do my best to try to answer.”

Another shared glance between her parents. “I think maybe we should save that for another time. It’s late, and these old adventurers are ready for bed,” Snow replies with a wry smile to cover her discomfort with the topic. 

It makes Emma bristle a little, but she won’t press. She doesn’t want to cause a fight when she’s so relieved to be back home with her family, no matter the new, uncomfortable circumstance that is her magic. It’s hard to remind herself of Regina’s assurance that her parents would accept her magic eventually with their uneasiness on display in front of her.

They all rise, and Emma lets go of Killian’s hand so that she can hug her parents once more. In spite of it all, their embrace is no less tight, no less comforting, and she relaxes into their hold. _ You have people on your side who love you. _

“We’re so glad you’re safe,” David murmurs.

“And no matter what happens, we love you,” Snow adds.

“I love you, too.”

When they finally part, Emma steps back and takes Killian’s hand. “Come on.”

She can see her father about to protest, but he seems to decide against it and just nods.

They exchange polite goodnights, and Emma sets off towards her quarters without further backwards glance.

Their walk is quiet and quick, only disrupted by a few remaining staff who tell Emma they’re glad she’s safe and sound.

When the door finally closes behind her, Emma sags against it for only a moment before she launches herself into Killian’s arms, hugging him again. She can feel the desperation in the way his fingers clutch against her, and his lips move against her hair when he asks, “Are you okay?”

She realizes with a start no one has asked her that yet.

“I--I don’t know.” The stability of his shoulders and back under her hands is a comfort. “I got held hostage by the Dark One. I have magic. I nearly died at least a few times. I--” she pulls away from him slightly, hands running to his chest, where her fingers trip over the hole in his vest and shirt. “Gods, and you almost died, if this stupid magic thing wasn’t working or I was weaker than Rumplestiltskin or if I couldn’t open the portal and I had to kill him--”

“Emma,” Killian interrupts softly, “Slow down.”

“If I do, I’m gonna come apart at the seams.” She sounds a little hysterical; a distant realization that she doesn’t feel empowered to stop.

“You won’t. You’re made of tougher stuff than that.”

She tips her head against his collarbone, the lapel of his jacket pressing into the skin of her forehead. “Made of magic, apparently. I don’t know if that’s worse.”

“Is it really worse?”

A _ yes _ is on the tip of her tongue, but it doesn’t come out. Instead, she leans back, meets his gaze and says, “Magic nearly ruined my parents’ lives. It did, for a good chunk of their younger years. Sure, True Love’s Kiss broke my mom’s curse but if magic had never been involved, she never would’ve been cursed in the first place.

“And now I find out I have it from Rumplestiltskin of all people, and that I’m powerful enough to warrant him finding me and trying to use me?” She shakes her head and pulls out of Killian’s grasp. Absently, she begins to pace. “And then with his heart? I probably would’ve killed him if you all hadn’t stopped me and I don’t--” She huffs out a sharp breath. “I don’t even know if I would’ve regretted it. I don’t even know if I am happy I sent him to the Land Without Magic.

“And I know my parents are scared of this. My mom can’t hide anything, and my dad’s almost as bad. It’s just another thing on the list of reasons why I’m not the daughter they hoped for--”

“Hey now,” Killian says, almost scolding.

Her pacing comes to a stop in front of the fireplace. She can’t handle looking at him right now, so she stares at the flames, low and banked for the night. “It’s true.”

“Those two desperately love you. They were willing to risk their lives on the slightest chance they might’ve been able to help save you.”

“I know,” Emma swallows thickly; the poisonous thought that’s been lingering in the back of her mind needs to be spoken, and Killian is the safest repository for her darkest, sharpest insecurities. “But just because they love me doesn’t mean they’re not disappointed in me.”

“_ Emma. _” She hears his footsteps behind her, but she doesn’t turn to face him. She crosses her arms in front of her. “Back in that castle, we didn’t force you to do anything. You chose to save him yourself. If that’s not something to be proud of, I don’t know what is.” His hand closes over her shoulder, not demanding, but a reminder that she’s not alone. “You are so, so strong. You having magic doesn’t change that.”

One of her hands comes up and closes over his where it rests on her shoulder. “You’re not disappointed are you?”

“What in the world could I have to be disappointed about?”

“Rumplestiltskin is still alive. I giftwrapped a happy ending for the man who murdered Milah.”

She can feel him step closer to her, but she can’t turn around yet.

“I let go of my vengeance long ago--I’m not sure forgiveness will ever be in the cards for me, but now that book has officially closed. He’s gone from this realm forever, and you gave an innocent boy his father back. It’s more closure than I’d ever hoped to receive. For a story that began with so much tragedy, it feels fitting for it to have a hopeful ending, no?”

He kisses the back of her head then, and she leans back into him. “I have never been more proud of you,” he whispers. “And I know your parents feel the same.”

Emma turns and kisses him. Her lips are urgent and his pliable, letting her take what she desires from him. He doesn’t wilt against her, but follows where she leads, his hook at her waist and his hand at her jaw, thumb stroking idly at the skin near her ear.

She breaks away from his lips long enough to say, “I think I just needed to hear you say it out loud.”

“I’ll say it as many times as you need me to,” he replies.

* * *

There is, quite frankly, nothing so enjoyable as kissing Emma. Their lips slide together with practiced ease that still manages to feel new and exciting, and he can’t believe that he has the good fortune to do so for the rest of his life. He has yet to ask her to marry him, but that’s a formality at this point. They belong to each other in all the ways that truly matter.

Emma breaks away from him again, her breath hot against him, and says, “I never thought I’d have this.”

He tips his forehead against hers. “This?”

“Love,” she answers, “True love, or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” he repeats playfully.

She gives him a quick peck before she continues. “I just--when I was younger, I literally couldn’t see myself marrying anyone, let alone marrying for love. I didn’t trust that anyone would actually… stick around for me.”

“You’re enough,” he murmurs, “Titles be damned, you are more than enough.”

She leans in to kiss him again, and he walks them backwards so that he can press her into the wall next to the fireplace, his hips pinning hers. Her lips open for him easily, the taste of her more intoxicating than any brew. She vibrates with a deep moan, her back arching away from the wall and into him.

“Gods, Emma,” he pants. “Do you want--”

“Yes,” she answers, “And you?”

“More than the breath in my lungs,” he answers, which makes her laugh.

“You’re dramatic.”

“But of course.” He leans in to her lips again, her jaw dropping as she permits him entry. Her hips press up into him, and the limits of their current position become quite clear. He bends slowly, trying to not have their lips part as he reaches for her thighs and lifts her. Emma’s legs go around him easily.

She huffs at the change, the way it makes their cores grind together in a better angle than before. The new position also puts her head a bit higher than his, and she takes advantage of the dominant place and kisses him with renewed vigor.

They’re forced to break away when their hips start to get ahead of them, and breathing becomes too much of a necessity.

“What happened to wanting me more than the breath in your lungs?” Emma teases, and he can tell she’s just been waiting to use that line against him.

He trails a gentle line of kisses under her jaw and down her neck, speaking between each one. “I will gladly devote myself to showing you just how well I can hold my breath in service of pleasuring you.” He looks up at her through his lashes. “If you’ll permit it?”

Her answering smile is blinding. “_ Yes _,” she says emphatically, and that’s all he needs.

He makes sure she’s secure in his grip as he turns her away from the wall and walks them over to her bed. He lowers her with as much grace as he’s able, but he still falls on top of her. Her delighted laugh is a balm to his soul.

“Clothes off,” Emma says. “Now.”

He cocks a brow at her, and places a chaste kiss to the tip of her nose. “So demanding.”

“I am the princess.”

“And what would the princess like?”

“What the pirate promised,” she answers, and he is only too happy to oblige.

He leans back to study her, a sudden smile overtaking him when he realizes that there’s no rush. They’d made love in this bed plenty of times, but this time will be different. This time, there’s no hurry or lingering fear of being caught.

He leans back far enough that he can drop his large coat to the floor. When he leans back down, he resumes kissing her--how could he not? Her hands go to the front of his vest, deftly undoing the clasps there with an ease that almost offends him--shouldn’t she be more distracted? He certainly is.

He cooperates in getting the vest off, tossing the garment behind him to join his coat on the floor. Meanwhile, Emma’s fingers dip inside his loose shirt, caressing the skin of his chest. Much as he likes the feeling of her hands on him, he’d like to return the favor.

Killian puts enough space between them that his hand can reach the buckle on the belt resting at her waist, and it’s soon tossed away. Her indigo calfskin vest is next, and he takes his time unclasping the closures. He teasingly lays light kisses down her neck, and noses the linen collar of her shirt to the side to run his tongue along her collarbone.

Emma’s hips undulate impatiently into his, and he swallows a groan. “Patience,” he says instead, and draws the backs of his fingers just over the waistband of her trousers, teasingly brushing the skin of her belly.

For all his talk about patience, he doesn’t waste much time in getting her bare from the waist up. He spends some time on her breasts, running his nose along the delicate skin and allowing his breath to wash over her nipples. They harden in the slight chill, and Emma’s breathing quickens at his teasing. Her back arches up towards him, an invitation that he gladly takes and draws a nipple into his mouth. Her answering sighs are soft and make her chest press up further into him. Her fingers go to his hair and tighten in the strands, and he moans against her. The sounds she makes in response and the gentle writhing of her body underneath his goes straight to his cock, but he can wait.

He leaves her breasts after they’re flushed red and both of her nipples are wet with his saliva and standing stiff. Gods, she is beautiful, chest heaving and green eyes pleading with him to get a move on.

He smiles up at her, dragging his stubble down her belly, detouring to her ribcage and pressing his lips where her bones press into her skin. When he reaches the waistband of her trousers, he nudges it down with his chin just enough that he can kiss low on her belly.

They work together to take off her boots, then her pants, leaving her fully naked. With a wink, Killian grasps behind her knees and pulls her hips to the edge of the mattress. “Show me,” he murmurs, and kisses one of her knees. Emma props herself up on her elbows, eyes boring into his as she drops her knees open. Her hair mussed, her breasts flushed, her wet cunt fully on display--she is the image of debauchery and vulnerability.

“You were saying something about showing off your impressive breath control?” she asks, perfectly innocent, but the wicked smile ruins it.

He winks at her before slowly dropping to his knees. Emma slides her legs over his shoulders, pressing her heels into his back in a silent invitation forwards. She stays propped up on one elbow, her other hand traveling downwards. She makes a cheeky pass over her clit, teasing herself. Her mouth drops open, a quiet exhale, as she makes a tight circle with her fingers, but Killian growls, and reaches up to grasp her hand and pull her away.

Without breaking eye contact, he ditches his plan to tease and goes straight in. His tongue runs along the seam of her, the wetness there making his pass slick and easy. Just one-two passes and then he zeroes in on her clit, just a lick at first, and her hips jump when he catches the very tip of her.

He shifts so that his left arm can wrap around her thigh, his hook resting just on her pubic bone. He gives her one last lick before he fastens his lips down and sucks hard, and Emma’s answering moan makes him thrust his hips into the bed, his cock desperate for friction. He sucks her once, twice, thrice, before backing off, languidly kissing her, letting his tongue run across her sex with practiced ease.

Although, no matter how many times he’s had the pleasure of tasting her, he can’t help but notice how beautiful Emma is when she’s ignited with pleasure. Her eyes are dark as they meet his across the expanse of her belly, and the fact that she wants to watch him makes him thrust fruitlessly into the side of the mattress again, and he moans against her clit. She answers with her own groan, and Killian giddily thinks that this is it--nirvana, heaven, the afterlife, whatever form paradise might take--it’s right here between her legs. Being with her, enjoying her, pleasuring her, making her smile and gasp and moan and grip his hair--this is their life now.

He starts to pick up the pace of his sucking--going longer, harder, more frequent--and even if he couldn’t hear her, her hips trying to ride his face would be a clear indicator that she’s drawing closer to that precipice. She’s strong, pressing up against his left arm in a forceful rhythm. He lets go of her hand long enough to frantically unscrew his hook so the force of her thrusts don’t make him accidentally puncture her with it, and he throws it towards where his jacket lay. He straightens himself up a bit, and presses his now-hookless forearm into her hips, effectively pinning her to the bed.

“Gods,” she murmurs, “Fuck, that’s hot.”

Killian almost laughs.

He’s sucking her clit almost constantly now, and her thighs are shaking on either side of his head. Her eyes have closed, her head has tipped back in ecstasy. Aborted thoughts spill out around her small moans and heavy breaths, a myriad of _ gods _ and _ fucks _ and _ gods, right there _. He grabs her hand again, trying to bring her back to him.

Her eyes find his again, frantically wide. “Killian,” comes next, breathy and light, “please don’t stop. Please--”

He groans against her core. _ Fuck _, if Emma begging doesn’t make him rock hard.

While he’s sucking at her clit, he dips his tongue to lick at the very tip of her, and the answering sound she makes it high-pitched and loud, an unfamiliar keen, almost a _ squeal _, that nearly makes him come on the spot. Killian has to break away from her core and press his forehead to her thigh, focusing on keeping his breathing even.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one before,” he says breathlessly, and then looks back up at her.

She looks a bit startled. “I don’t think I’ve ever _ made _ that sound before.” She laughs breathlessly. “Maybe true love sex is better than normal sex?”

He smiles and kisses the damp skin of her thigh. “Well, the only point of comparison we’d have is your parents, so if you want to ask--”

She groans. “Oh my god, do not talk about my parents right now.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t stop?” she asks, and he grins.

“Of course not, darling.”

He shows no mercy after that. The high-pitched keen doesn’t make a reappearance, but Emma’s volume grows with each determined swipe of his tongue and focused suck with his lips. She’s close, her hips pressing up violently against his arm, her fingers tight on his hand, a litany of praises and pleas spilling from her lips. _ Please, Killian, please, I’m so close, gods, fuck, so good, please don’t stop, please-- _

Emma isn’t much of a screamer--only when it’s perfect, and only if she’s feeling particularly giving because she knows how much he likes it when she’s loud--but it’s a near thing on this one, her voice going hoarse as she shouts her pleasure to the ceiling. He pushes her through it with lips and tongue, gentler, slower, letting her float down from her high. He almost has to stop again, the taste of her, the feel of her unraveling under his touch almost too much for him to bear.

She lets herself fall back down on the mattress, the arm that was supporting her going limp, and she says on a sated laugh, “Fuck, I love you so much.”

Killian places one last kiss against her sensitive core, red and swollen and soaking from his touch, and she twitches.

“Love you, too,” he answers softly. He rises, letting her legs fall from his shoulders. She reaches for him, pulling him down to kiss her. She moans softly at the taste of herself on him.

When he pulls back, she combs the hair back from his forehead. “Now can I get you naked?” Emma asks.

He snorts. “Still not satisfied?”

She grins up at him. “Oh, very. But--” she looks meaningfully down at the tent in his trousers, “--I think I could be _ more _ satisfied, don’t you think?”

He smirks at her, and nods toward the head of the bed. “Lie back for me, love.”

He begins to strip quickly and efficiently, and is pleased to find her hungrily watching him. She’s propped up against a pillow, a fingertip resting on her lip, and by the time he’s dropped his brace and is completely bared, another is running light circles around one of her nipples.

“Bloody hell,” he whispers, and hastily joins her on the bed.

He settles on top of her, enjoying the feeling of her thighs stretching around his hips. His cock feels as though it’s been hard for hours, and when it slides over the wet lips of her cunt he nearly loses himself, a pained groan escaping him and shakes going through his whole body. Emma’s hands come up to his cheeks, bringing his eyes back to hers. “Easy, tiger,” she says, and leans up to leisurely kiss him. He exhales through his nose as he leans into the kiss.

His hips start to move of their own accord, picking up a slow and steady rhythm of rutting against her.

“You feel so good,” Emma says between kisses, and he groans.

“Gods, Emma.” He could laugh at his staying power. “I’m not even inside you yet and I’m already on the edge.”

As he kisses down her neck, she says, “I’m definitely not against you fucking me so hard and fast we break the bed.”

He groans again. “You can’t say things like that to me right now.”

She combs her hand through his hair again, her nails lightly scraping his scalp and letting him gather himself.

“This’ll be the first time I’ve ever been able to fuck you in this bed as slow as I damn well please,” he says.

He must catch her clit on one of his strokes, because Emma jolts underneath him, and she gasps sharply. “Want to talk about it some more?” she asks.

He chuckles. “Not particularly, no.”

Emma reaches down, hand wrapping around his cock and nudging the head of him to her entrance. He props himself up enough so that he can look down at her face. Her mouth drops open, eyelashes fluttering, as he pushes slowly inside, the stretch of her around him exquisite. He could’ve thrust all the way in one hard push with how wet she is, but instead he stutters his hips, gently working his way inside until their hips are flush. She clenches around him when he’s fully seated, and his forehead drops to hers.

“Fuck, Emma,” he moans. “So good.” Fuck, she feels incredible, wet, tight heat consuming him and sending sparks up his spine.

He needs the taste of her as he begins to move in deeper, fuller strokes, drinking from her lips like a man parched. Emma’s movements counter his, pressing her hips up to meet him, but she lets him dictate the pace. She lifts her legs up to wrap around his waist, allowing him to sink into her at a new angle.

As they slowly and tenderly fuck, he simply enjoys being with her--he’s not one to think much about his own mortality, but it’s starting to hit him that he almost lost this forever. Emma almost lost him, and if things hadn’t gone their way, she’d be mourning now. He doesn’t want to think about that world, where he might have forced Emma to go on without him. The slow connection of their bodies, the deep kisses, the heady eye contact, it’s an intimate connection, tangible evidence that they are both here, both alive, and they will have a future.

He laughs with the sheer joy of it. “Gods, I love you.”

“I know,” Emma whispers, “Gods, I know.”

He picks up the pace then, giving her a bit of that hard and fast that she’d wanted before, though certainly not hard and fast enough to break the bed. Emma makes these gorgeous sounds, pants and moans and words of praise, and he can’t stop himself from making some noise of his own.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs, and drops his head to suck a mark onto her neck. “So wet, so warm for me.”

“Fuck,” is Emma’s shaky answer, and her walls flutter around him in a way that makes him groan before he continues.

“Do you feel it love? How good we feel together?”

“Yes,” she answers, “I--_ fuck _\--I love how we feel together.”

Gods, and he can _ hear _ the sound of how wet she is, the sound of her body welcoming him in. “Touch yourself,” he says, and Emma is quick to oblige, her hand darting down to where they’re joined, and she tightens like a vise when she reaches her clit. He manages to not finish then and there like an inexperienced cabin boy, and he ducks his head so he can watch her.

Her hand is rubbing in quick back and forth motions over her clit--she’s close. Her cunt is tightening sporadically around him, her voice getting that much louder and more wanton with every thrust.

She’s so beautiful, so amazing, so incredible, this woman he loves, and he kisses her again because he can’t _ not _. 

Her fingers slide over him, feeling where they’re connected and Killian knows he’s not going to last much longer. “Please, please, please,” he whimpers against her lips. “Come on, Emma, come on, love, come for me.”

Her fingers pick up the pace on her clit, and he can feel her straining for it, reaching for her peak. He goes harder, faster, forgetting about his promise to fuck her slowly because he needs to see her come, needs to feel her release around him.

He braces himself on his left arm, and his hand goes down to where hers rubs frantically. He slides his fingers between hers, feels the wet flesh underneath their fingertips, and presses down as hard as he dares to go on her clit. “Come on, love,” he says again, and this time she does.

Emma has beautiful orgasms--she cries out and tosses her head back, her breasts press up into his chest, her skin glistens with sweat, her eyes close and her mouth drops wide open as he fucks her through it. Her cunt clamps around him and he doesn’t hold himself back anymore. He grasps her hip, fingers still slick with her, and drives into her a handful more times before he too is coming. 

For a brief moment, he can feel magic again, just like when they’d broken Emma’s curse. His whole world is reduced to where he is touching her, and the sheer depth of feeling he has for her becomes all he knows, all he can think. The love, the ecstasy, the sheer euphoria drowns out everything else.

When he comes back to himself, he’s kissing her, slow and sweet, his thumb stroking her hip and her hands are on his cheeks.

He takes a moment to enjoy the afterglow, but his cock is slowly softening inside her, so he carefully pulls himself out before rolling to his side next to her.

He then notices that the fire that had been very low and nearly reduced to coals when they first entered the room, is now blazing. He chuckles. At Emma’s look, he nods past her towards the fireplace. “Should I withhold my comment on our ‘burning hot chemistry?’”

She looks over at where the flames, regardless of the lack of fuel, are blazing warmly. He worries briefly that this will reignite her insecurities about her magic, but instead, she laughs, one of her hands going to cover her eyes.

“We’re gonna need to try to put that out,” she says. “Way too big for a nighttime fire.”

“It’s magic, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean it won’t, you know, accidentally light the rug on fire.”

She moves to get up, presumably to tame the fire she’d started (and if he feels a little smug for making her lose control like that, then he can hardly be blamed), but he catches her elbow before she can.

“What? I have to go clean up anyway,” she says.

“I’ll grab a cloth for you,” he says, “but you should try to put it out from here.”

“What?”

“You started it from here, didn’t you?” he answers. He rolls off the bed, despite the wobble in his knees, and goes over to her vanity where a bowl of water and a cloth lay. He uses them to clean himself up before he dips the cloth in the water and wrings it out again and brings it back over to her. She’s been watching him carefully, and he smiles at her.

“You can do it, love, I’m sure of it.” He holds out the cloth for her. She takes it and cleans herself quickly.

“Thanks,” she says softly before handing it back to him. He replaces it on the vanity before he returns to the bed.

“I might not know much about magic,” he says, “but I know you.”

She bites her lip before she says, “Okay, fine.” Emma sits up and scoots herself to the edge of the bed, eyes focused on the fireplace. “See it,” she murmurs to herself. 

He comes up behind her, unsure if he should distract her, but if she lit it while he was touching her, surely touching her will help her put it out? He puts his arms around her waist, and she leans back against him.

Her hand goes out, and she slowly lowers it. The fire lowers with the motion of her hand, and she gasps.

“See?” he says, pride blooming in his chest. “I told you so.”

She brings her hand back and stares at her palm for a moment before she says, “I did that.”

In a move he wasn’t expecting she veritably tackles him back to the bed and kisses him like she plans on going for another round.

“Not that I’m complaining, darling,” he says when she breaks away once the need for air becomes urgent, “but if you plan on another round, then you’ll be flying solo, because--”

“No, I’m--” She smiles, but it’s not a post-coital teasing smile, it’s something warmer, something deeper. “I’m more than satisfied. I’m just… I’m happy. I’m really happy, and it’s because of you.”

“A fair exchange then,” Killian replies, “because so am I.”

They draw back the covers of the bed and snuggle into its depths. Emma’s back fits nicely against his chest (_ “You got to be the little spoon last time.” _) and their day starts to catch up with them, their eyes drooping.

With softness surrounding him on all sides, Killian realizes, “This will be the first time I actually get to sleep in this bed.”

Emma chuckles, and cuddles back further into him. “The first of many,” she replies, and Killian can’t help but feel settled. Certain.

This is real. They’re doing this.

Starting tomorrow, they can finally, _ finally _, step into their future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come screech at me on tumblr? @slow-smiles


End file.
